Mom Squad: A Sweet, Small Town Romantic Comedy

Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined taking custody of my niece and nephew, let alone moving back to my hometown.

Even more surprising is the guy living on the other side of my pond who could pass as a model for an outdoors catalog. Oh, and he’s a doctor.

Chapter One

Aniston

 “Aniston! I told you to stop eating crack.”

I blink until Morgan comes into focus. She’s standing over me, hands on her hips, like Captain Marvel about to throw down some bad guys.

But in this scenario, the bad guy is me. My crime? OD-ing on cookie crack.

Yep. Of all the family recipes my mom left behind, the one I chose to learn consists of four ingredients. Two of those being sugar.

I roll onto my side and moan. Like an addict, I reach for the pan of decadent homemade dessert, but Morgan squeezes me between her feet, immobilizing me from reaching farther.

She’s got a good sixty pounds or so on me, and I’m coming off a sugar high.

“Move your foot, or I’ll puke.” My tight-as-a-tick stomach can only take so much before it blows.

Morgan moves one foot the slightest bit so I can breathe, then bends at the waist. In one fell swoop, she snatches me up by the arm and grabs the pan of cookie crack with her other hand. Raising four kids with minuscule help from her cheating ex has made her scrappy.

When we were growing up, she was much more like my sister. A poised Southern belle who wouldn’t hurt a flea. Now she’d be my number-one draft pick for any type of backyard ball or in case I need an alibi or wingman—eh, wingwoman—to help me bury a body.

I slide from underneath her and adjust the T-shirt I’m wearing. Even though it’s so old and faded, you can see straight through it, pulling it down to cover my Thursday panties at least gives me the illusion of decency. And by Thursday panties, I mean that they say Thursday on the rear and that I’ve had them on since Thursday.

Today is Sunday. Not that I’m counting.

The first thing I did after my sister and brother-in-law’s funeral was treat my niece and nephew to a nice, long road trip that ended at Disney World. In the time we’ve been back at their home, I can’t seem to function.

Morgan gives me her best mom stare as I hoist myself onto the edge of the bed. “I’m worried about you, Aniston.” She pinches off a corner of what’s left of the cookie and slides it into her mouth.

“I thought you were on a diet.”

She rolls her eyes and laughs around a mouthful of cookie dough. “I’m at least forty pounds overweight and carried four kids full term. I’m always ‘on a diet.’” She accents the words with air quotes. “Besides, this is your one-woman intervention. Don’t try and flip the script on me.”

Busted. I smirk and fold my gangly legs under me. “I’ll be fine.” I glance around the guest bedroom, wishing that were true.

It’s worthy of a Southern Living center spread, with a comfy
queen-sized bed and peaceful view to the property below. But with the woman who put so much love into making this place a home no longer here, it

feels like the most hospitable prison cell imaginable.

“It’s just being here. Back in Apple Cart. In their house.”

“I know.” Morgan sighs and breaks off a larger piece of crack as her eyes mist. “I see her in every room.” She sniffles, then glances back at me. “And I see her in you.”

I raise my eyebrows high enough to hurt my head.

Morgan shakes her head. “Not now, not like this.” She points a finger at me and scowls. I stare at her chipped purple nail polish to keep from letting the scowl intimidate me.

“It’s just hard, you know?” My voice cracks. I try and convince myself it’s from eating too much cookie and not because I’m on the verge of crying—again.

Morgan sits beside me and sets the crack pan on the opposite side of her. “Absolutely. Raising kids is hard, especially alone.” She pats my knee. “I can’t even begin to put myself in your place. One minute you’re the cool, traveling aunt who blows through during the holidays with one-of-a-kind souvenirs, and the next you’re signing custody papers after a tragedy.”

That summary is all it takes for my vision to blur. I dab at the corners of my eyes with my fingertips. Morgan gives my knee a gentle squeeze. “I’m not gonna lie to you, Aniston. It will be hard. But you’re gonna make it, and I will be here to help you along the way.”

I bite my bottom lip to keep it from quivering and give her a slight nod. She smiles and wraps me in a hug. We both cry for a minute, mourning the loss of my sister. Yet again.

As we pull apart, I glance behind her at the pan. She snatches it up and stands before I can even think about

trying to steal it. “No more crack!”

I sigh. “How do you do that?”

“I have a theory that God gives you an extra set of eyes with every child, and I’m a mom of four.” Morgan points two fingers to her eyes, then to me. “I’m watching you, Aniston Wilson.”

I laugh, and my shoulders ache, proving how worn my body is from lack of sleep and proper nutrition. Some nights I have to lie in my RV to sleep. Not so much out of habit as out of not wanting to stay in Jennifer’s house.

Both my parents were dead by the time I finished college, so when I came home, I came here. Being ten years older than me, Jennifer was like my mom and sister all rolled into one. I had the best of both worlds with her. We didn’t always see eye to eye, but she loved me unconditionally, as I did her.

We’d talked before about me raising the kids if something were to ever happen to both her and Luke. I gladly accepted the honor of stepping up to the
task. Deep down, I never anticipated it becoming a reality.

I’m like a third-string quarterback. I studied the playbook now and again and had a good relationship with the other players. However, I never thought the first and second string would go down at the same time, leaving me to carry the game. And every game from now on, or at least until all the players reach legal adulthood.

I blow out a large puff of air and blink. Wow. Morgan doesn’t blink back. She’s like some sort of eagle-eyed mom robot. “Morgan, I appreciate you helping me.”

Her expression softens at my compliment. Score! I really did mean it. Even if I said it to get rid of her RBF.

She sets the cake pan on the dresser. “Why don’t you and the kids come to my house for supper tonight?”

“Are you not tired of my kids? You had them last night and this morning at church.”

“Nope. I love cooking for people, and you guys are like family.”

I smile. Morgan is like family, and she’s a great cook. I remember when she’d bring something to Jennifer’s holiday

parties or summer grill outs. I’ve survived on cereal and sugary treats since parking the RV last week. My body needs some Southern soul food.

“What can I bring?”

Morgan’s cheeks shake like she’s fighting off a laugh. She straightens her face and nods at the pan. “The rest of this will be fine.”

I wrinkle my nose at it. Only a third of the cookie cake is left. The rest of the pan is scattered crumbs and scrapes from where I forked my way through most of it last night and today.

“I’ll be checking to see how much is in there tonight too. Come at six.”

I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

Morgan smooths out her shirt and heads for the door. She turns and narrows her eyes at me. “Please shower and put on some pants . . . or shorts. Anything, really.”

I salute her, and she shakes her head before walking out and closing the bedroom door behind her. One more deep
breath to compose myself, then I’m on my feet and reaching for the cake pan. Not to eat it, but to safely put it away until tonight.

After one last peek at my kryptonite, I take the lid from the floor and cover the pan. I start out of the room, but first circle back for a pair of shorts. Best not to scar my seven-year-old

nephew with a front-row view to my Thursday panties.

My athletic shorts fit a little snug around the waist after the cookie binge, so I slide the waistband a little lower. Probably for the best, as my shorts now show beneath the oversized shirt I’ve slept in the last few nights. It’s also a good thing I’m so small chested, since this sports bra’s elastic is about as taut as a piece of yarn.

I emerge from my lair and hope my niece and nephew can’t smell the “I cried and ate crack all night” practically leaking from my pores.

Who am I kidding? They’re smart. My best hope is that they choose not to bring it up and embarrass me further.

On my way to the kitchen, the
doorbell rings. I start to yell for someone to get it, but decide I’ve been enough of a diva for one decade. The least I can do is open the front door. It’s probably Morgan forgetting something. I pass the kitchen and answer the front door.

“Hey, Mor—“ My eyes meet a broad chest in a snug T-shirt and follow it to broad shoulders and a handsome face.

Between my self-induced low blood sugar and realizing what I must look like to him with greasy hair mounted on my head and a see-through shirt/nightgown, I have to steady myself from falling.

One hand on the door frame and one hand holding the pan, I manage to whisper, “You’re not Morgan.”