Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 84802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“There is also the cost that I have to bring up.”
“Not an issue,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ll eat ramen noodles for the rest of my life if I have to.”
I laugh at him this time as his thumb rubs mine. “Thank you,” he says quietly, “for taking us on.”
I turn from his stare to his son’s; whose eyes are just like his father. “For him, anything,” I say, kissing his neck.
“Are we having dinner together?” Jack asks. “I want spaghetti.”
“Will you stay?” I turn to Zack when he asks, meeting his eyes. “Will you stay and have dinner with us?”
I shouldn’t stay. I should say no, put Jack down, and walk out the door. Leave and go home to my loft, alone. But I don’t say no. I can’t say no. Instead, I just nod my head. “There is no place I’d rather be,” I say, and it’s one hundred percent true.
Zack gets up. “I need a shower. I ran out as soon as Sarah called.”
“Go ahead,” I tell him, getting up with Jack. “Jack and I are going to go get a snack while I start dinner, if that is okay?” I ask him, and he just nods his head. I’m expecting him to walk away from me. What I’m not expecting is his hand to come up and cup my face.
“You really are everything everyone says about you,” he says softly. I get lost in his voice.
“I just do what I can,” I answer him honestly. He looks down and then up again, turning to walk out of the room and up the stairs. “So what do you say?” I ask Jack. “Want to help me cook dinner?”
“Yes, please,” he says, smiling. We walk to the kitchen where I start to make dinner with him by my side.
Chapter Twelve
Zack
“That was the best spaghetti I’ve had in a while,” I tell her after I finish my second plate.
“Roasted garlic,” she says, taking a sip of her bubbly water. “I swear by it,” she says, smiling, and then Jack slurps his last noodle.
“Is there more for tomorrow?” he asks, looking at Denise.
She leans into him and whispers in his ear, but it’s loud enough for me to hear. “I put two plates aside for you.”
He claps his hands and yells out, “Yippee!”
“You need a bath,” I tell him, wiping the stain of sauce all around his mouth.
“Why don’t you go and get him in the bath, and I’ll clean up before I go,” she tells me, but I’m not ready for her to leave just yet.
“You cooked; you don’t get to clean up,” I tell her.
“Dr. Denise can do the bath,” Jack says, getting the picture, “then she can tuck me in.”
“Really?” She gives him a sideways glance, and I know in my heart she would do anything for him. She throws up her hand like she gives up. “Fine. Twist a girl’s arm,” she tells him and then gets up and grabs him.
“Does he know where everything is?” she asks me. Standing in my kitchen, with regular blue jeans on, a white t-shirt with splashes of sauce, her hair tied on her head and her bare feet, it feels like she belongs here, like she is a part of us. Even if we just met.
She didn’t get pissed off when her shirt got dirty; she didn’t even bat an eye when Jack sneezed and sauce went flying everywhere. He stood there in shock and wasn’t sure what to say; he looked scared that she would freak out, but she did the complete opposite. In fact, she threw her head back and laughed. It means everything.
“Yeah, he knows where everything is,” I tell her. “The tub is in my bathroom.”
“Um, would you rather do it then?’ she asks me, and I just shake my head.
“Let’s go, Dr. Denise.” Jack pulls her by the hands, and I hear him talking to her. “He has purple bubbles we aren’t allowed to touch because they help him exfoliate.”
I hear her laughter all the way from the kitchen, so I yell back, “That stuff really works.” I shake my head, grabbing the plates and putting them in the dishwasher. My phone rings, and I see it’s the lawyer.
“Hello?” I say, holding the phone against my ear with my shoulder since my hands are wet.
“Mr. Morrow,” she starts off, “I’m calling with news.”
“Give it to me,” I tell her, and I turn to wipe my hands and sit down while I wait for her to drop the ax.
“Good news first or bad news first?” she asks me, and I’m almost tempted to laugh because where Chantal is concerned, nothing good can come from it.
“Bad news and then good,” I tell her and brace myself.
“Bad news is she is fighting the prenup; good news is she doesn’t have a leg to stand on,” she says. “Now I kind of sugarcoated things.” She clears her throat. “She wants joint custody.”