Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
I had been all worked up, ready to argue the point with my mother further. I had good examples in my head as to why they shouldn’t stay. Maisie’s two children, my mother’s nice but not very self-sufficient husband, her volunteer work, the price of tea in China—anything to get them back home and in the compartment I’d neatly stored them in.
But my mother’s simple, heartfelt request stopped me short.
I felt Kane’s gaze beside me. I didn’t look at him.
“Fine.” I returned my attention to my eggs. “But we’re not doing showers, parties, moon ceremonies, any of that. It’s a birth. A child. Very exciting, but I don’t want any fanfare.”
“God forbid fanfare,” my mother replied, a lightness in her tone.
I scowled up at her.
She held her hands up in surrender. “Eat your eggs. I’m done.”
She turned to resume cleaning the counter, and after a beat, I resumed eating my eggs.
Kane’s hand made its way to my thigh, then he squeezed. Tightly. I didn’t look in his direction, but I reached my other hand down and covered it with my own as I finished my breakfast.
My mother was a whirlwind, as she tended to be. She was not one to remain idle. Even on my rare visits home for the holidays, she was always cooking, baking, cleaning, organizing things for donation, decorating.
It was good for me since there were few moments for her to sit across from me and talk, for her to get to know me. Not that she didn’t try; I just didn’t give her many openings.
Something about this visit told me it would be different. There were too many opportunities for openings now. I wasn’t on a time crunch, there were no Christmas cookies to bake, nothing to decorate, no restaurant emergencies to conjure.
But there was a whole lot of baby stuff that needed organizing. And you were supposed to wash the clothes before you put them on the child, I’d discovered. So she spent the morning doing that, after she cleaned up my meal.
Something that I hadn’t realized I’d missed, my mother’s cooking. It was the one connection I had with her that wasn’t marred by the trauma of my childhood. She made everything from scratch—bread, biscuits, any baked goods. Our house always smelled of rosemary or cinnamon or apple pie.
I didn’t understand the importance of that scent memory until now. Until it filled my house.
I glanced to Kane, to where he was on the phone.
Our home, I supposed.
He handed me papers I needed to sign about the mortgage while Mom was in the laundry room. “To authorize me paying it off,” he explained.
I glared up from the pages. Yes, he’d mentioned this, and I knew it wasn’t a passing comment; he’d really intended on paying off my house. I had planned on setting him straight on that, but we’d been busy.
“You don’t need to pay off the house.” I shoved the papers back. “I’ve got it.”
“I do need to pay it off,” he argued, pushing the papers back to me.
I frowned at him. “Just because I’m carrying your baby doesn’t mean you get to take over my life.”
“Taking care of you isn’t taking over your life, Chef.” He didn’t come anywhere near matching my hostile tone. “And I know it’s not feminist, I know you’re independent and successful enough to cover the mortgage. But you’ve got the baby shit,” he gestured around the living room, to the piles of things my mother and I were organizing. “You’ve picked the perfect place to bring her up. You got the vehicle. Please let me feel like I’m contributing. That I’m a part of this.”
I gauged his words, deciding that they were utterly sincere. I knew Kane wasn’t going to make me a ‘kept woman,’ yet it was hard to let go of my independence. “Contributing isn’t paying off an entire house,” I pointed out.
The corner of his mouth turned up. “It is if you’re rich. Crass to say, I know. But I’ve been spending money on stupid shit for years, since I got handed piles of it. Let me put it toward our home, our future.”
More gentle pleading. And my heart, previously made of iron—or ice, if you asked around in New York—was nothing but marshmallow.
“Fine,” I reached for a pen. “But I’m paying insurance and property taxes.”
Kane merely grinned and nodded in a way that didn’t make me feel like I had won.
Before we could argue further, Mom danced into the room.
“Right, you,” she pointed at Kane. “I have this.” She waved what looked like a crumpled receipt with scrawled writing on it.
“A list. I need to get everything prepared.” She looked to me. “You’ve done absolutely amazing at getting almost everything we need for the baby, my darling. Not that babies need much, really. A place to sleep, a diaper, a onesie or two and their mom and dad. And Grandma and Aunt too.” She winked. “I would send this to Maisie, but she’s probably already overloaded with things and won’t have room for simple, practical items like nontoxic laundry detergent.” She looked pointedly at Kane. “It should only have five ingredients. No fragrance unless it comes from essential oils. And I’ve got some food items on here so I can get started on the postpartum meals and some food to freeze for when I’m gone.”