Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 91937 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91937 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“Hey, baby,” I say softly, bending and kissing his neck. His back arches as he stretches his hands over his head. “Time to get up for school.”
His eyes flutter open, showing me the warm brown ones that fill my heart. “Already?” he asks me, turning to his side. “Five more minutes,” he mumbles, and I laugh.
“Okay, five more minutes.” I get up and walk over to the wooden chest of drawers that looks like it was bought in the seventies and came with the house. When I pull open the drawer, it rubs against the bottom wooden part. I pick out a white polo with blue cargo shorts and put them on the top. “Your clothes are here,” I say, and he just mumbles. “I’m going to go make your pancakes.”
“Eggs,” he says, and I smile. “Bacon.”
“Gotcha.” I remind him, “Five minutes.” It’s the last thing I say before I walk out of the room and head back down to make him breakfast. Only when his sandwich is done do I walk to the bottom of the steps and call up, “Time’s up, buddy.”
“Ugh,” I hear him groan before his feet hit the floor.
“Boy,” I mumble, “same.” I chuckle, walking to the kitchen and waiting for him to come down.
He walks into the room wearing what I put out, going to the table and taking a bite of his sandwich, while I lean on my elbows on the counter, facing the table. Sipping my coffee, I make the mistake of looking out the window. My eyes go to the table on his back porch, seeing him sitting there with a coffee in his hand and his phone in the other. His hair is all over the place, and I wonder if it’s as silky as it looks. His bare chest is tanned and perfectly sculpted, and he has a little dusting of hair just under his belly button and going down. I shake my head. What the fuck is wrong with you lusting over your neighbor? You haven’t had sex in seven years, that’s what’s wrong with you. Even so, the last one you want to jump into bed with is the man who hates you and hates your ex-husband and his family. You’ve been here about a week, and he’s already come to your rescue twice. At the same time, he’s probably calling real estate agents to sell his fucking house and get away from me and my crazy-ass, soon-to-be ex-husband. If only he would sign the fucking papers.
“You done?” I ask when Wyatt gets up and brings me his plate. He nods. “Go brush your teeth. We have to get going.”
He goes to the bathroom while I grab his lunch box from the fridge before heading to the front door and waiting for him to come back down. “All ready?” I ask, and he shakes his head.
“I don’t want to go,” he states softly, and I put his bag down at the door before going to him.
“What do you mean, you don’t want to go?” I squat down in front of him. His eyes are down on his shoes as he blinks them furiously, probably to stop himself from crying.
“I’m not going to know anyone,” he says just as softly as he did before.
“Baby.” I grip his hips in my hands. “You are going to make friends.” I try to blink away my own tears, my eyes stinging with dryness. Last year, he was at the private school he’s been at since he was in preschool. But after the year was up, they handed me the paper to register him for the next year. I gave it to my lawyer, who relayed the message that, “The Cartwrights aren’t going to pay for his education if he isn’t living under their son’s roof.” I thought about fighting it, but if they didn’t want to pay for their grandson, and, in turn, Winston didn’t want to pay for his son, there was nothing I could do to change their mind. I also knew there was no fucking way I could afford twelve thousand dollars a year for school. They left me with no choice and, once again, took something away from my son, who is their flesh and blood. Something they don’t give a shit about, apparently.
“You met a couple of them at the park,” I remind him, “and you guys all played soccer and tag.” I knew when he would have to change schools that he would hate it. So during the summer months, I made it a point to go to the parks closest to the school, hoping he would find friends, and luckily for me, he did. “Look at me,” I urge. He looks up at me, his bottom lip quivering. “You are the best kid I know.” I cup his cheek. “Everyone will want to be friends with you. And you know why?” I ask, and he shakes his head softly. “Because you’re the coolest kid I know.”