Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Poppy heads straight for the bed. Larissa walks over and sets James on it and then helps Poppy on. Bouncing and giggles ensue.
“Looks like they keep you busy,” I reply, feeling a little disappointed our time was cut short. I try to wrangle my thoughts back together as Jackson helps me to my bare feet.
I was just getting used to . . . whatever this was, thinking it wasn’t so bad. When we say goodbye to the kids, James is so cute when he insists on giving me a hug.
Closing the door behind him, Jackson comes into the hall with me. I slip on my shoes while Jackson sits on the steps to put his back on.
Saved by the babysitter earlier, I loop back to the burning question. “You never said if you wanted kids.”
“You didn’t ask. You asked me if I knew if I wanted them. I know.” He stands and steals a kiss.
I’m tempted to steal it right back because of that answer. I laugh instead. “Are you going to tell me more or leave me guessing?”
“Guessing sounds more fun.”
I roll my eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Fine. Keep your secrets.” I start down the stairs. “I’ve got mine.” I don’t even know if I have any secrets, but it’s fun to tease him.
He’s quick on my heels. “What secrets are you keeping?”
“Oh good, Marlow, Jackson, dinner’s ready. I put fresh drinks on the table for you.”
Saved by his sister. Nick and Harrison are here, and after quick greetings, the six of us sit to eat. Roasted chicken and au gratin potatoes with a side of steamed and seasoned broccoli. It’s such an unexpected meal—a little rustic and comforting.
I’m so used to ordering food that it’s easy to forget that I could learn to cook and make something like this on occasion. Maybe . . . I take a sip of wine after eating a couple of bites. “This is delicious.”
“Thank you. It’s simple but good every time. One of Jackson’s most requested. He’s always bugging me and my mom to cook for him since he’s so busy. Sometimes, I’ll just make two of the same dish to send over to him. Do you like to cook?”
“I don’t. My mom doesn’t either. I don’t even know if she knows how.”
Tatum says, “Sounds like my mom. She could close a multimillion-dollar deal, but boiling water was not her forte.”
Natalie says, “My mom was a very good cook, but she worked a lot as well. Nick’s mom, Cookie, showed me how to make the most delectable turkey at Thanksgiving. She’s full of great tricks.”
“She sure is,” Nick adds, “matchmaking being her specialty.”
Natalie reaches over and rubs his arm. “Cookie will take no credit for us getting together, and instead, she’ll say the stars aligned because we were meant to be.”
“That’s beautiful,” I say, cutting my vegetables and then taking a bite. Not once have they made me feel like an outsider. It’s the opposite almost to a fault. I’m being treated like I’m already a part of the family.
I’m not sure what to think of that, but it feels so natural to me as well that I have no intention of rocking the boat. This is what I dreamed of when I was growing up. A family meal. Conversation over dinner. Catching up with each other.
It leaves me befuddled as to why my parents even had a kid if they didn’t want this.
I won’t let it ruin my time. This feels too good to want it to end.
“How’s the gallery?” Nick asks.
Jackson’s hand comes to rest on my leg. I’m starting to piece together the little things he does. Support and encouragement fill the leg touch.
“It’s . . . there. I have a big show that I’m working on that could be pivotal for launching my career into a gallery director position.”
Tatum says, “That sounds exciting.”
His thumb grazing back and forth is the pride he has in his eyes for me. I love seeing it as much as feeling everything he shares with me.
“It is,” I continue. “It’s wait and see in that area, but the planning has been really enlightening. Working on a global project has allowed me to learn so much from international galleries.” I laugh to myself. “New York is cutting edge in the art world, but places such as Paris, Madrid, Italy, and Japan have something so stylistically unique that it’s just breathtaking when I see some of their pieces in person.”
I hadn’t noticed that everyone stopped eating, only that my heart beat differently as I was speaking—quicker, my cadence of thoughts too fast to put into words. My love for art in all forms has been lost for the past two years. I feel alive, knowing it still exists inside me.
“I’d love to show you two photos I recently acquired. It’s a newer photographer here in the city. Story Salenger. Have you heard of her?” Natalie asks.