Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115706 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
He shoots me an excited grin. One I’d caption, Do you see how great it’s going? But before an actual word is exchanged, Dad calls out something to Raine, with his back facing me and his eyes on the griddle, that instantly commands my full attention.
“Hey Rainey, did you know Coobie is your daddy?”
At Dad’s question, Caleb’s eyes go wide and my jaw drops. Shit. I never would have introduced that concept to Raine this early on. For all we know, Caleb isn’t going to stick around until the custody hearing in a month, let alone for the rest of his natural life. Did Dad consult Mom before revealing that shocking bit of news to Raine? Mom is the school counselor in this family. The expert who’s read books on child psychology and development. So, she’s the one who should lead the charge on when and if Raine finds out Caleb’s identity.
“Rainey dadda?” Raine asks, looking at Caleb, who looks deeply tongue-tied.
“Yep,” Dad says breezily, still facing away. “Caleb is Rainey’s daddy, just like I’m Auntie Aubbey’s daddy.”
Crap. If Dad’s going rogue here and introducing this concept without Mom’s blessing, this could end badly for poor Raine. “Hey, Dad,” I blurt, my voice tight. “Maybe let’s not—”
“Good morning, Shortcake!” Dad bellows happily. “Coffee’s made. Blueberry pancakes on the way. Is Mom still on her bike?”
“Yeah. Can I speak to you for a minute in private?”
“Can’t right now, honey.” Dad motions to the griddle full of pancakes. “The executive chef of the team—that’s me—” He winks at Raine. “Can’t fall down on the job.”
“Dadda, dadda, dadda,” Raine sings, shaking her little booty, as she continues gripping the counter, as instructed; but it’s not clear if she’s singing the word as a simple earworm or if she’s specifically calling Caleb the moniker.
“That’s right,” Dad replies smoothly. “Coobie’s Rainey’s dadda.” He winks at Caleb, who’s still standing stock-still at the refrigerator with the door wide open. “Hey, sous chef. That’s you, Coobie. Get those blueberries and shut the door already. Electricity is expensive.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Caleb follows instructions, but it’s obvious he’s not thinking about pancakes any longer. On the contrary, he’s clearly bursting with excitement about this unexpected turn of events.
“Now go ahead and measure out another batch of ingredients for the chef de partie to mix up,” Dad instructs. “Let’s get some blueberry pancakes into the assembly line.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, chef.”
“Yes, chef.” Caleb returns to Raine, where he slides a protective arm around her again and does as he’s told. But through it all, he keeps glancing at me, like he’s awaiting my reaction.
Finally, when it’s clear I’m at a loss for words, Caleb says to Raine, “Just so you know, you can keep calling me Caleb or Coobie.”
“Or Dadda,” Dad chimes in.
“Whatever you want to call me is okay.”
Dad chuckles. “You can even call him Coobie Dooby Doo, if you want. You know, like Scooby Dooby Doo?”
Raine laughs uproariously. She’s watched that cartoon, I think; but surely, she’s simply laughing at Dad’s silly inflection, rather than understanding the pun.
“Coobie Dooby Doo,” Caleb echoes. “I like that.”
“Coobie doo doo,” Raine tries, and everyone laughs.
“Hey, I think my daughter just call me poop!” Caleb teases, and Raine screams with laughter, causing the rest of us, even me, to laugh, too.
“Okay, team,” Dad says. “The executive chef is ready for some more batter and blueberries. Chef de partie—that’s you, Rainey—do you have some more batter for me?”
Raine tries to pick up her plastic bowl to show him, but in doing so, she knocks over a coffee mug sitting nearby.
“Uh oh!” Raine says sheepishly, her big eyes widening. “It thpilled.”
“No worries,” Caleb says, as I say something similar.
I dart toward a drawer to grab a towel, but Caleb beats me to the punch by grabbing a nearby paper towel. After mopping up the spill, Caleb places his large, inked hand on Raine’s head and says. “Don’t worry, party chef. We all make mistakes. I sure do. All that matters is you keep your cool, fix the mistake if possible, and keep going. Right, Auntie Aubbey?”
My heart skips a beat. “That’s right.”
Warmth oozes into my core. I’m not sure what spell has been cast on Caleb, or if it will last, but it’s clear he’s undergone some kind of metamorphosis overnight.
“Auntie Aubbey!” Raine calls to me. She pokes Caleb’s forearm. “Dis Coobie Dadda. Dadda clean up. Dis dadda.”
Caleb’s chest expands and freezes that way. Did she just call him Daddy? It’s hard to say. But it certainly felt that way. Shit. If it turns out Mom thinks it was a bad idea for Dad to reveal Caleb’s identity to Raine this soon, we’re clearly not going to be able to stuff this genie back into the bottle.
“Yup,” I choke out. “Dadda cleaned it up for you. Because that’s what nice daddies do.”