Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
“Oh.” She perks up, and I imagine she’s already planning what she can cook for Damien. “Do you know what he likes? Or better yet, I’ll ask him myself when he comes down,” she says thoughtfully.
When we were younger, she practically helped raise us, and when we got old enough to no longer need a nanny, she moved into caring for the house and cooking. When I noticed her slowing down, I decided to hire an outside cleaning company to come in and do a thorough housecleaning every week.
“Morning,” Brielle says, sauntering into the kitchen, dressed in workout attire. “Martha, I’ve missed you so much.” She wraps her arms around the housekeeper, who returns the embrace.
Martha was visiting a relative when Brielle and I returned from Russia, so she hasn’t gotten a chance to see her until now.
“Oh, Brielle,” Martha coos when they pull apart. “You’ve grown into such a beautiful young woman. Welcome home, my dear.”
“Thank you,” Brielle says, having a seat next to me. “I wish I could say I was happy to be home, but”—she side-eyes me—“I was dragged back here against my will.”
“Hardly,” I mutter, taking a sip of my coffee.
While the women catch up, I go through the emails that came in while I was asleep. It’s not until Brielle mentions leaving for Pilates that I enter the conversation, already knowing there’s going to be a fight.
“You can’t leave,” I tell her.
She whips her head around until she’s looking at me. “What the hell do you mean?”
“There are things you don’t know,” I begin.
Before I can fill her in, a little boy comes stumbling into the kitchen, dressed in dinosaur pajamas. His red hair is messy from sleep, and he’s rubbing his eyes.
“Mommy?” he mutters, looking around in confusion. “Do you know where my mommy is?”
“What the hell?” Brielle breathes. “How did a little boy get in here?”
Ignoring her question, I walk over and kneel in front of him. “Hello there, Damien. My name is Dominick. Your mom is here somewhere. Why don’t we go find her?”
“Who is his mother?” Brielle asks, earning a glare from me. “Don’t look at me like that,” she says smartly. “A child is wandering around the house.”
“He’s not wandering,” I say, standing and holding out my hand for him to take. “He’s … related to us.”
I want to say he’s my son, but I can’t imagine that would go over well with Peyton. I have no intention of keeping my paternity from him a secret, but I bet it will go over better if I ask her how she’d like to go about it.
Speaking of which …
Loud padding down the stairs fills the air, and a few seconds later, the mother of my child comes flying around the corner.
“Oh my God, my baby!” Peyton cries, scooping Damien up into her arms. “I went to go pee, and you were gone. You scared me! You went down the stairs by yourself? Are you okay?”
He looks at her like she’s grown two heads and then says, “Mommy, I’m not a baby. I’m three.” He lifts his fingers to emphasize his point.
Although I don’t have any kids to compare him to, I must admit, mine is damn cute.
“I know,” Peyton says, her tone patient. “But stairs can be dangerous. You could’ve fallen and gotten hurt. You could’ve bumped your head.”
“I didn’t fall,” Damien says. “I slid.”
Peyton sighs, and I stifle my laugh because she’s such a mom—worried about him when he’s not the least bit worried himself. She would have a heart attack if she knew the shit my brother and I had gotten into when we were little.
“Wait, you slid?” she asks. “You slid where?”
“Down the stairs.” He giggles and then wiggles his body, silently demanding to be let down.
When she lets him go, he takes off out of the kitchen, and we all follow and watch him fly up the stairs without a care in the world.
Peyton gasps while I laugh under my breath, and she scowls at me.
“Watch, Mommy!” Damien yells when he gets to the top.
He drops to his butt and then proceeds to slide down, hitting each step as he goes, laughing the entire way. When he’s about halfway down, Peyton cracks a smile and shakes her head.
“See?” he says when he gets to the bottom. “I slid. I didn’t fall.”
“I see,” she tells him. “But I need you to go slower while going up and down the stairs, please. You could trip and get hurt.”
“Fine,” he says with a sigh. “Can I go to school now?” he asks, switching the subject quick enough to give someone whiplash.
Peyton shoots daggers my way as she contemplates what to say, so I jump in, hoping making it right will earn me some points with the mother of my child.
Last night, when I spoke to my assistant about picking up clothes for them, she mentioned he’d also need some toys since they came with nothing. I’m planning to order shit, but she grabbed a bunch of stuff to hold him over until I can do that.