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)
“She sounds delightful,” I say and then catch myself ready to apologize when he throws his head back and laughs.
“That’s a good one,” he says to me, and I expect him to be mad. “My mother saw it early on that Chantal didn’t have the ‘motherly touch’”—he uses his fingers to make air quotes—“but I just brushed it off till I saw it for myself when she got mad at him for spilling grape juice on the white rug.”
“Oh, dear,” I say, thinking she would hate my rug, which has coffee stains, Coke stains, and very recently, vodka cranberry stains.
He shrugs his shoulders. “I wish I could say it got easier, but it didn’t. She didn’t cope well with Jack being sick and never ever wanted him to take his hat off in public.” He shakes his head, and I have this sudden hatred for a woman I have never met.
“I’m sure she had her strong suits.” I try to be positive.
“Yeah, no one can rack up an AmEx bill quite like she could.” He laughs. “We were married for ten years, so I should be sad it’s over, right?” He looks at me, and I have this sudden urge to go to him, to hug him, to hold his hand, to take care of him. I don’t know what their story is, but at this point, I don’t care. My main focus is Jack.
“Dinner’s ready.” I hear Allison yell from the kitchen. The kids run into the dining room, and Michael looks over at Jack.
“You can sit next to me.” He points at the chair as he climbs up on it.
“Yeah,” Jack says, and I watch him look at Michael and laugh. “Is it spaghetti? I love spaghetti.”
“Me too,” Michael says, “but I think it’s lasagna.”
“Daddy.” Jack looks up at Zack. “Do I like lasagna?”
He goes to his son and kisses his cheek. “Yeah, buddy, you do.”
I watch him doting on his son and always keeping an eye on him. I watch him making the most of every single moment he is with him. I watch him and pray that I can save him.
Chapter Four
Zack
“Jack kiddo, come give Dad a kiss. I have to head to the rink,” I yell up the stairs, waiting to hear his footsteps.
He comes down the steps one at a time holding the railing with Sarah following him close behind. I wait for him, and he jumps into my arms and kisses my lips. “Are you coming back?” he asks me, spotting my overnight bag at the door.
“I’ll be back tomorrow night.” I squeeze him and bury my face in his neck, taking in his smell.
“Your beard is itchy.” He giggles then squirms to get out of my arms.
“Jack, go get the books out. We will have reading time,” Sarah tells him, and he walks to the living room, pulling out the bucket of books that she brought over.
“The emergency numbers are on the fridge. My cell phone is always going to be on even when I’m on the ice,” I tell her, and I thank fuck that this team that welcomed me with open arms is being so good about this whole transition. “He has no allergies, and he hasn’t had a fever in over a month. At the first signs of fever, you are to take him in. I know I’m repeating myself, but ...” I smile at her
“Yes, Mr. Morrow.” She smiles at me. “I have it under control, and if there are any questions, I will call you.”
“Perfect.” I smile at her and then turn and look in at Jack sitting on the carpet on his knees while he flips the pages of the book. “I’ll FaceTime you tonight,” I tell him, and he smiles when I walk out to climb into the waiting Uber.
When I get to the arena, I walk in and make my way to the locker room to drop off my bag. I shrug out of my coat and then start to undress and put on my gear. Placing my left foot in my skate feels almost like going home. I’ve always loved to skate; if you ask my mother, I was skating before I was walking.
“Hello, boys.” I hear from the door and look over to see a man who looks like he is GQ ready. “No need to hide the frank and berries; I’ve seen it all.” He laughs, making me chuckle. “I see fresh meat.” He winks at me, and Matthew groans as he walks in.
“Olivier, go easy. He has no idea you’re joking,” he says, dumping his bag down in front of me.
“Who says I’m joking?” he says and stands there in his gray fitted suit, a bit short at the ankles where he wears blue and gray colored socks. He folds one arm and then places his other hand on his chin. “I have lots to work with.”