Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
I feel small next to him, tiny.
Safe.
Wyatt giggles, breaking my thoughts. “Dude, I was like a spider monkey up there!”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “A spider monkey? You definitely looked like one, hanging on to those handholds. Are you sure this was your first time rock climbing?”
Wyatt nods. “I totally want to do it again.”
Dex laughs. “Well, little spider monkey, how about we cool down with some ice cream? My treat.” He glances at me. “If it’s okay with your mom.”
“You mention ice cream in front of her and expect me to say no? As if there’s a choice?”
Rule 1: Never mention sweets in front of a child and expect to get out of it. Kids never forget anything.
Rule 2: I’m the one who looks like an asshole if I say no to ice cream, damn him.
Wyatt, bless her adorable heart, is already celebrating, bouncing on her toes. “Yes, yes, yes to ice cream.”
They high-five.
“Isn’t he just the best?” I ask playfully. “He’s trying to bribe us into hanging out with him longer than I would normally allow us to be out on a Sunday night.”
“Don’t be a party pooper.” He says it with a grin, holding up his hands in mock surrender to make himself look innocent. “So, what do you say? Want to follow me in your car? There’s a place not too far from here.”
There always is.
“I have no choice, do I?”
He shakes his head.
Settled in the car, my child grins. “I like him.”
I give my daughter side-eye as we pull out of the sporting complex.
“Of course you do, he’s your sidekick now, siding with you on everything.” I am the odd man out! She finally has someone to hang out with who acts her age. “Plus he bought you those LEGOs.”
It would be remiss of me not to remind her.
“That’s not the only reason I like him,” she says. “He’s fun. And LEGOs are not toys—they’re fuel for my imagination.”
Ha. True.
It’s also true that Dex is fun. But fun isn’t what I consider a building block of a good relationship, although it helps.
Baby steps.
When we pull up to the small brightly colored ice cream slash tourist shop, Wyatt is practically vibrating with excitement and frothing at the mouth for something sweet. The sign above the entrance reads Scoops Ahoy! and the smell of freshly made waffle cones wafts through the air.
My mouth waters, and we’re not even inside yet.
It’s a whimsical wonderland of colors, twinkling fairy lights, and a dizzying array of ice cream flavors—not to mention T-shirts, mini cacti, hoodies, postcards, and other Arizona-themed treasures.
Wyatt beelines for the counter, licking her lips as she takes in her options, and I can tell by the look in her eyes she is wishing for and wanting each one of them.
“Can I get . . . um . . . chocolate chip cookie dough? No, wait! Mint chocolate chip! Or maybe both?” my child babbles, her indecision making Dex laugh—and me cringe.
I can handle it when my daughter gets hyper, but he’s not used to it.
I wonder what he’s thinking right now.
“Why not both?” Dex suggests, winking at me over the top of her head. “YOLO, am I right?”
I forget that he’s a man who makes a ton of money.
Wyatt’s eyes light up. “Really? Thanks, Dex! You’re officially my favorite person.” She hugs him tight around the waist, squeezing her eyes shut in the process.
“Hey!” I protest, feigning hurt. “What about me?”
She turns to me with a mischievous grin. “You’re my favorite too.” Pauses. “Obviously.”
I raise a brow. “How many favorites do you have?”
Wyatt starts counting out loud. “You, Dad, Mrs. Fletcher, my art teacher. Conrad, the lizard. The guy at the botanical garden who always lets me pick the daisies. Dex.”
“Dude, that’s a lot of favorites,” Dex points out.
My daughter shrugs. “I like a lot of things.”
We place our orders. Wyatt does order the double-scoop monstrosity that is her heart’s desire, while Dex and I opt for a hot fudge sundae we intend to share.
Wyatt scores us a booth by the window and immediately starts chattering, lacing her fingers together and setting her hands on the table.
“So,” she begins. “When are we getting together again?” Her gaze bounces between Dex and me.
“We’ll see.” We haven’t even had dessert yet, and she’s already ten steps ahead.
“Don’t you think it went well?” my daughter asks, putting me on the spot. “I know I had fun.”
Fun.
There’s that word again . . .
“Of course I think it went well,” I say, face flushing when Dex turns to watch me, curious, I’m sure, as to what I’m going to say next.
“Then why wouldn’t we get together again?” Wyatt urges. “We can go to San Diego or something.”
If I were drinking water, I would choke. “San Diego?”
Fortunately for me, Dex decides to chime in, splaying his hands on the tabletop, mirroring my daughter’s pose.