Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
“I dunno. I just gave the party people the theme, which I’m still kind of bummed isn’t Wilder based.” Suds stick to my hands as I lift them, giving a shrug in miniature. It’s his birthday, his choice, I seek to say. “And I told them a class of kids,” he adds. “They are the experts, right?” He slides his fingers from inside the glass, and my mind short-circuits. The glass and the kitchen disappear, and all I can see is the mirror and our reflection in it. His face washed in shadow, his fingers between my legs as he whispers velvet compliments.
You’re so pink . . .
“Kennedy?”
The sound of his voice whips me back to the moment. “Sorry.” I swallow, my eyes darting away. “I must’ve spaced out for a second. What were you saying?” God, I want him—I want to reach out, run my tongue across the textures of his jawline, and wrap my legs around him. But I can’t. We don’t do things like that.
As Roman puts the dry glass down on the counter, I wad up those dirty thoughts and push them to the back of my mind.
“I said it’s too late now.” Because Wilder’s party is at the weekend. “At least there’ll be a fuck-tonne of cupcakes, thanks to Annie.”
“You ordered from Annie?” A happy little flame flickers in my chest.
“She’s not the confectionary queen for no reason. Also, she’s made square ones.”
“Square ones what?”
“Cupcakes. They’ve got these angry green faces on them.”
I laugh as he adopts an angry expression. “Ah, Minecraft.” The curse of my life. Though sexy memory-laced Roman interludes are becoming a bit of a problem, too. But when Roman said he’d help with Wilder’s birthday a couple of weeks ago, I thought he might offer to pick up party favours. Maybe go to Costco and pick up napkins. What I wasn’t expecting was for it to morph into a full takeover. I mean, I’m okay with it. Kind of. Okay, I’m not really okay with it at all. I feel kind of itchy about it. Antsy. Which is weird because, in previous years, I’ve been happy to leave the planning mostly to Holland. But I’ve sucked it up because Wilder seemed to want him and his dad to take over the planning for the day as a way to help me.
Help. Me.
I will say that Roman has been very careful, taking great pains not to step on my toes. He even asked me to help him shop for Wilder’s gift, despite his birthday having already officially long passed.
Birthdays have presents, darl. Besides, I have a lot of years to catch up on.
He was also pretty prosaic about the five grand that landed in my bank. He’s not a digital nomad or odd jobbing his way around the world. That much I do know. Mainly because he laughed when I asked him if that’s how he made a living. But he’s been pretty reticent. He said he used to model, which I can totally believe, and that he does some work for Byron, his brother, who seems to be in the wine business. I don’t know. I don’t know. Maybe money just isn’t a big thing to him.
Anyway, Wilder has long wanted a trampoline, so Roman bought him one. A top of the range, spring free deal, though it’s hard to tell who likes it best, given that Roman has been on the thing almost as much as Wilder has. It’s a big trampoline and a lot of fun to watch the pair of them.
I glance out of the kitchen window. Wilder and Moose are still splayed out on the trampoline, one of them sleeping and the other cloud gazing. I smile, remembering how Holland and I liked to do the same.
“Looks like I tuckered him out.” Roman’s low-spoken words slip past my shoulder as he joins me watching our son. I try to ignore his proximity and the veins in his forearm flexing as he clutches the edge of the sink by my hip. The scent of coffee on his breath and just the sheer heat of him. The glass I’m holding slips from my fingers, bobbing on the water before sinking. Dammit, the more he’s around, the more I want him. And paradoxically, the less he seems to want me.
Only, that’s not true because I’ve seen the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not looking. I’d caught a fleeting glance earlier of him standing in the kitchen doorway with his fists balled by his side. He looked like he was trying to compose himself, like if he’d stepped into the room at that moment, he’d have no choice but to put his hands on me.
“Thanks for helping me choose his birthday present.” His hand lifts to rest on my shoulder, though I keep my eyes glued to the yard. A riot of green under a clear blue sky. Though not so much of a riot, I realise. It looks tidy. Clipped hedges and a manicured lawn.