Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69129 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69129 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“No!” Wes points a stern finger at the clearly untouched dish. “Now, sit! And eat!”
“No!”
My husband darts towards him prompting our son to effortlessly dodge away and me to contemplate on a scale of Amanda Grayson – Spock’s Mom – to Talia Al Ghul – who stole Batman’s sperm to knock herself up – how awful would I be if I just…left?
Went back to the office?
“Worked late” until whatever this is blew over?
“Wyland Wayne…” the out of breath man I married warns. “Enough!”
“You nuff!”
I drop my bag near the front door, cross the living room space for the kitchen, and announce, “That’s enough for both of you.”
Both Wilcoxes snap their heads in my direction bearing adorably similar expressions.
Ugh.
It’s wild how much they look alike.
“Mommmmm,” my son shouts, rushing towards me. “Mom home!”
“Mom is home, Little Fins.”
“Late,” grumbles his father under his breath.
“And surprised to see you.” One swooping motion gets him situated in my hold. “You were supposed to be with Uncle J.T. this weekend.”
“Pwezza might and Star Twek!”
I smile at how familiar that combination feels in spite of not actually being able to remember it.
He glares unhappily at Wes. “Not. Muggets.”
“Why is he here?” Another adjustment to Wy on my hip is made. “Why isn’t he having pizza and Star Trek night? Why is this not something you called or texted me about before I came home to Battle of the Binary Stars?”
Rather than answering any of my questions, he folds his arms disapprovingly over his white dress shirt, “Explain to me why you’re late.”
“Ask me and I fucking might.”
“Language,” Wes poorly reprimands prompting his son to sass him for me.
“F bomb, only mom.”
“I don’t love that phrase,” complains my husband.
“I don’t love being interrogated.”
“I no wuv not pwezza might!”
Realizing whatever adult conversation needs to happen won’t be with him in the mix, I announce, “We’ll do pizza and Star Trek here at home tonight, okay?”
“Yayyyyy!”
“You don’t think you should consult with me first?” Wes snaps without hesitation.
“Did you think to consult with me first when you changed plans for the night?”
“I didn’t change plans. J.T. changed plans.”
“Why?” Guilt immediately grows in his expression pushing me to step forward and prod. “What. Did. You. Do?”
“We are not discussing this in front of Wyland,” he uncomfortably claims at the same time he reaches for the untouched meal he made.
“Let’s put on the movie, get you some blocks, and order dinner,” I announce on a spin in the opposite direction. “And then mom and dad are gonna have a grown-up talk until the pizza arrives, okay?”
“Otay!”
The process of getting our son settled and engrossed in his own activities in the living room isn’t hard.
In fact, whenever sharks or superheroes or Star Trek are involved, it’s never hard.
It’s whenever those things can’t be woven in that he tends to put up a bit of a battle.
What can I say?
He really, really takes after us.
Post helping him stack blocks to build “Spock’s House”, I slip away back to the kitchen where I find the unexpected site of an empty whiskey glass and Wes attempting to flick his sobriety chip into it.
The instant it bounces off the rim, I tease, “So sexy yet so athletically challenged.”
Against his own volition he shoots me a smirk. “Quarters is not a sport.”
“It’s one of the only college sports that matter.”
“You mean that you excelled at.”
“That’s what I said.”
Small snickers are followed by him grabbing the object to give it another go. “I’m better at this than beer pong.”
“You will never be on my team for doubles.”
“We can’t play, anyway. I can’t drink.”
“You can chug root beer.”
He rolls his eyes, leans back against the counter space closest to the stove, and flicks the small object towards its goal, only to miss once more. “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” my figure crosses the area to retrieve the item, “I soooooo call dibs on Puppet Boy being on my team.” After the chip is in my possession, I casually segue, “Puppet Boy who to my recollection loves his pizza night with his nephew.” Maneuvering myself to match Wes’s position is swift. “Why did he cancel?”
Wes doesn’t respond.
He merely drops his attention to his bare feet.
“Okay.” I balance the round piece on my bent fingers. “Let’s come at this from a different direction.” Flipping my thumb sends the object soaring to the other side. “Why are there two security guards on duty outside our penthouse door?”
“There was an incident today at Wy’s academy.”
Faint clinking is barely heard due to my squawking, “What?!” There’s no reluctance to leaving the item in the glass. “What type of incident?! And when did it happen?! And why didn’t the school fucking call me?! Why didn't you fucking call me?!”
“It’s in their files not to.”
“What?!”
“Given your…condition-”
“I’m not dying of some mysterious space disease, Wes! I’m not an invalid! I’m not incapable of dealing with other people whether that’s our publicist or our concierge or the owner of our son’s fucking school!”