Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
It’s almost as if competitive ice-skating is easier.
On the way home, I try to steer things in a more positive direction with Parker at least. Tyler had mentioned I could take the kids out for a fun activity—a park, bowling, something like that. I don’t want to be just the “grocery store and pickup” nanny. Besides, if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s having fun.
“What do you two like to do after school? Do you like bowling?” I ask, trying to sound upbeat. “Mini golf? Scavenger hunts? Art classes? Bookstore trips?”
“Skating, mini golf, seeing friends. Going to the wildlife sanctuary,” Luna says, breezily.
My ears prick, remembering what her dad said on my wedding day when I told him about the doves I didn’t get—She’s obsessed with learning about animals. “Have you been to one? A wildlife sanctuary?”
She shakes her head. “No, but I want to,” she says, and I could hug her for being so direct and making my job easy.
“I’ll do some research,” I say, putting that at the top of my list.
“Also, roller skating,” Luna says, then takes a breath, maybe gearing up to rattle off more things she’d like to do.
“Noted. Keep ’em coming,” I tell her.
“Hula hooping. I heard that’s super fun. I also want to learn to skateboard.”
I get the feeling this enthusiastic girl could command a whole conversation, so I make sure to include her brother too. “Parker, what about you?”
“I want stickers for my ceiling,” he says. “Moons, and planets, and stars, and constellations.”
“That sounds cool,” I reply, picturing myself wishing upon shooting stars when I was younger. Maybe we can bond over that. “What about shooting stars? I used to wish on those before my skating competitions. Do you want stickers of those?”
He sighs heavily. “A shooting star is not a star. It’s a meteor burning up in the atmosphere,” he says, like I’m dumb and he’s a rocket scientist.
“Huh. You learn something new every day.” I peer into the rearview mirror, catching his blue eyes. “Maybe you can teach me about the stars, then?”
For a second, he’s quiet. “Maybe,” he says, a little less sharp this time before turning to look out the window.
Maybe, too, I’ll hold off on trying to win him over today. Winning him over might take more than gummy bears and hope—but I’m not giving up.
But if I can’t win Parker over right away, at least I can help more around the home. Sure, Tyler said he’d cook, but there’s no reason I can’t pitch in with prep. I’m here to make his life easier, after all.
As the kids do homework—Luna upstairs and Parker in the open living room—I chop up tomatoes, cilantro, cheese, and lettuce, setting each in small white bowls I find in the cupboard. I grab some rice and beans, putting them on the counter as well, next to an avocado. He’ll want to cut that last so it doesn’t brown too soon. I remove the chicken breasts from the packaging, even though I don’t like touching meat. But it’s my job, so it’s fine. I can handle it for Tyler and Parker. Luna doesn’t eat meat, so I make sure there are enough beans for her. I slice the chicken into chunks for Tyler to cook, put them in a glass dish, close it, and set it in the fridge.
I glance around the bright, sleek kitchen, with its white counters and polished surfaces. All the groceries are put away, the counters are wiped down, and dinner is prepped. Not bad. Not bad at all. Hopefully, Tyler will be happy.
Right on time, the garage door vibrates lightly. Parker perks up, sitting straight on the couch, his ears practically pricked like a dog’s. “Dad’s home,” he says to no one in particular, which somehow makes it sweeter. Then he bolts up.
And my heart—it swells.
A minute later, he launches himself at Tyler, who comes around the corner dressed in workout shorts and a T-shirt. Tyler scoops up Parker easily. “What’s up, little buddy?”
“I’m not little,” Parker says, but it’s full of affection, not any of the attitude he gave me. Good. It’s nice to see someone have a good relationship with their father. And I can handle attitude, no problem.
Once Tyler sets his son down, he turns to me in the kitchen and blinks in surprise as I wipe my hands on a towel. He peers at the array of food, then back at me. “You…didn’t have to cook.”
But he doesn’t actually sound mad. He sounds delighted.
“I didn’t,” I say, feeling a little buzzy from his reaction. “I only prepped things to make it easier for your ‘build-a-taco night.’”
Parker snaps his gaze to me. “Build a taco?”
I meet the eight-year-old’s eyes, playing my ace. “Yes. I figured you can set everything out and pick your own ingredients for it.”