I wasn’t planning to make anything too highfalutin.  My boys were used to that sort of thing, but I didn’t want to be inconsiderate to Heath.  I was certain from what I’d gathered about him that he liked simpler food.  And that was fine.  I could do simple and give it a nice gourmet edge.  Sometimes that was the best food of all—the simple and superb.

I’d decided to go with a chestnut soup with bacon and chives for an appetizer, green beans with shallots, hazelnuts, and tarragon accompanying a comfort style beef bourguignon pot pie for the main course.  And, after briefly and frustratingly trying to grill Heath about his preferences (the man would never tell me what kind of food he liked), I decided to go with a classic chocolate mousse for dessert, because who didn’t like chocolate mousse?

It was a bit alarming how good Heath was at being a sous chef.  Alarming because he knew his way unerringly around every inch of my kitchen.

When I needed bay leaves, he knew which shelf in my extensive spice collection to search.  When I asked for a star anise pod, he didn’t have to ask where or what it was.

Some part of my brain kept picking at that, but I was having too nice of a day, so I brushed it off.

He was so efficient, in fact that I wound up giving him a break from the position about an hour before my boys were set to arrive.

He didn’t seem to mind at all, just grabbed an apple, set himself away from me on the far side of my large kitchen leaning back against the counter and ate his apple while he watched me work.

I was fine with that.  I had grown to love the way he watched me.  It was amazing how fast I’d become accustomed to being studied like prey, how much I’d come to crave it, when I knew precisely what was at the end of that intent stare.

That wasn’t to say that I wasn’t distracted by his idle self.  He could distract me by doing absolutely nothing.

Hell, he was legitimately distracting me right then just by eating a freaking apple.  I loved, seriously loved, how he consumed it with purpose and intensity as he did everything, it seemed.

It was a treat to watch him devour it in big succinct bites, going to the very last bit of fruity flesh until you wondered if he would devour the core or not.

“You aren’t going to like how your pot pie crust turns out if you keep looking at me like that,” he told me.

Biting back a happy smile, I turned my back on him and went back to cooking.

God, I loved all of his little quirks.

My boys, Rafael and Gustave, arrived at the same time though they came in their own cars.

Raf came with a bouquet of white daisies, and Gustave brought pink carnations.

My father had taught them this when they were very young.  Always get flowers for beautiful women, he’d told them more times than I could count.  And, as I was the only daughter to my doting father, he’d been sure to point out to them, and there is no woman on this earth more beautiful than your mother, so she can never have too many flowers.

They’d both taken it to heart.  More often than not, even on the most casual, quick of visits, they came bearing flowers.

I flushed in pleasure.  “You shouldn’t have,” I said.  I always said this, but never meant it.

I adored this ritual.

“Nonsense,” Raf said.

“Mother,” Gus chided.

They both sounded so much like their grandfather that it filled my heart with joy.

I embraced them, giving Gus and then Raf a light kiss on the cheek.

They both favored me.  My ex and I had similar coloring—dark eyes, black hair, dusky skin, and so did the boys, but their actual features, sharp straight noses, almond eyes, lush lips that stayed a natural dark rose in color, even their square white teeth, it all came straight from me, and I couldn’t have been happier about it.

Raf was taller, leaner than Gus.  And Gus, while still over six feet, had a shorter, more bulked up build than his older brother.  Small physical differences aside, though, anyone could tell at a glance that they were brothers and that I was their mother.

There weren’t many men out there as good looking as my boys.  They were outrageously attractive.  I’d seen it early on, made a point of keeping them humble, while still knowing their own worth.

Me being their mom helped as they adored me and didn’t disrespect the women in their lives because of it.

While my sons had a striking physical resemblance, personality-wise they were opposites in many respects.

Raf was so sensitive.  Not to himself.  Rarely for his own pain did he suffer.  He suffered for others.  It both broke my heart and overfilled me with pride to see the way he was moved.

Gustave, on the other hand, was insensitive to almost an extreme.  He was a fighter.  He could both take and land blows with precision.  He fought for everything he thought was worth his concern.  Causes.  People.  He’d always been a tank of a boy, designed to defend.

For being so dissimilar, I thought their personalities complemented each other quite brilliantly.

But when they fought.  Oh, Lord.  It was agony for all three of us.  Just the worst.  They hated being at odds with each other.  Went to great, careful, tedious steps to avoid it, so when it happened, it was usually unavoidable and terrible.

Terrible for me because my boys were hurting, and your children in pain is at least ten times worse than literal pain to yourself.

At least.

Terrible for Raf because he was sensitive, all criticism focused inward, and he kept it bottled up tight, rarely letting it lash outward.  But when it did go outward, and he said things that were usually true but that he knew were hurtful, he suffered double the impact.