Trent had no idea what was going on. Porter didn’t hug anyone except for him. Trent had never paid much attention to it until that moment, with his son gripping Lauren like she’d saved his life.
“Evening, Trent.”
He turned from the scene at the back of Lauren’s truck to find Betsy Brown standing there.
“Oh, hey, Betsy.” He spied a bag of French bread in her hand. “What is that?”
She laughed and shook her head. “As if you don’t know.” She passed the bread over to him, and it was still hot. “Chicken cheese bread. Right from the oven.”
“Thank you so much.” Trent didn’t have the heart to tell her they’d already eaten. He hoped Porter would keep his mouth shut too. Betsy lived right next door, and she brought dinner over a couple of nights a week, with no rhyme or reason to the schedule.
