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)
“Because you’re always angry with him,” he answers oh-so reasonably. “That’s how I know you like him. Really like him.” He gives a waggle of his brows. “The same way I like Savannah.”
“Who the heck is Savannah?”
“You know, the girl in my class.” His shoulder gives an unconcerned flick, though he turns a little pink under his freckles. “She likes Minecraft, too.”
“Sounds like a match made in heaven. How about we order pizza for dinner?” Because, apparently, I can’t cook. I also don’t want to.
“Make mine ham and pineapple.”
I freeze at the sound of Roman’s voice, and I don’t dare look his way he drops himself to the other end of the couch. Thank you, God. Goddess. Universe. Thank you whoever or whatever brought him here. I thought I’d have to grovel and beg just to get him to speak to me, and I was fully prepared to because I don’t deserve—
No. I do deserve him. Or I’m going to, if he’ll let me. A grand gesture to make. Bridges to build. Fences to mend. Risks to take. And a way to frighten my heart even more than any stupid panic attack.
“Dad, you’re here!” Wilder throws himself on his father with the kind of effusiveness that speaks of wartime separations. Even Moose gets in on the act, barking for entry into their circle of love. I move my feet to the floor as all three return to the couch, though Moose is content to curl next to my slippers.
“So who’s ordering this pizza?” Roman asks, his gaze only for his son. “I’ll have double pineapple with mine.”
“Pineapple isn’t meant for pizzas.” Our son chuckles gleefully. “Tell him, Mom. It’s only meant for fruit bowls.”
“That’s the rule in this house.” My gaze flicks Roman’s way, but I can’t make it stay there.
“I reckon I should get a veto vote. I am, after all, a guest in this house.” The telling look he sends me makes my stomach sink. “Pineapple is amazing on a pizza,” he tells Wilder. “But it’s even better on a burger.”
“Yuck!” Wilder giggles, bouncing in the space on the sofa between us. “That sounds so gross!”
“Wrong, little fella.” Roman ruffles his hand through Wilder’s hair. “Aussie burgers are the best.”
“What’s an Aussie burger?”
“What kind of question is that? An Aussie burger with the works is how men are made down under.”
“Sounds like you can’t have one,” our son is quick to inform me, his head swinging my way.
“That sounds kind of unfair.”
“I’ll share mine with you, if that’s allowed,” Wilder says, patting my arm. Before anymore awkwardness sets in, Wilder is already onto his next question. “What’s on an Aussie work burger?”
“With the works,” Roman corrects with a smile. “So there’s a burger and bacon—”
“Sounds like a plain old regular burger so far.”
“Hang on. I’m not done yet. There’s also cheese and tomato, avocado, lettuce. A fried egg, a bit of beetroot—”
“Egg and beets? Yuck!”
“Wrong, little friend. Pickled beetroot elevates. With a smile that echoes Wilder’s, Roman brings his fingers to his lips in a chef’s kiss. “Where was I? Yeah, avocado—”
“You already said that.”
“I know, I love avo, so I’m having double.” This time, his gaze meets mine over our son’s head, his blue eyes as unfathomable as the ocean. And just as dangerous to fall into. “Sauce,” he asserts, his expression a little tart itself. “Then mayonnaise.” He looks down again. “And don’t forget the pineapple.”
“Sounds like you’ll need to unhinge your jaw to eat it,” I add quietly.
“He’s half Australian. I think he’ll manage it,” he murmurs noncommittally. “I’ll treat you to an Aussie burger when we get to Sydney if you like?”
“Sydney is the capital of New South Wales,” Wilder parrots proudly. “I looked that up on the internet.”
“Did you?” Roman asks, his delight clear in his tone and the sparkle in his deep-blue gaze. “Let’s visit, eh?”
My stomach sinks. So much for my plan, my grand gesture. I can feel it all slipping away.
“Yeah?” I imagine my son’s eyes are as wide as saucers, though I can only see the back of his excited head. It’s a good thing he’s not looking my way as I struggle to maintain my composure, sensing what’s coming next.
Punishment, when deserved, hurts just the same.
But I’m not going to cry. I have to be done with that.
He’s going to take Wilder, not forever, because I know he’s better than that. But he’s not so good that he won’t use my mistakes as leverage, oh-so subtly.
I want. You do. Or else.
But I won’t let my lies colour decisions, bend my convictions, bleed into our lives ever again.
“Can we?” Wilder’s head swings around excitedly, and I force myself to smile. My son is going to Australia, and I have little say in the matter. Even if I was going to suggest—