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)
But I don’t just want to watch it. I want to be a part of it. Now.
I turn the corner and say, “Got an extra one for me?”
Luna pops up, grinning. “Yes! Put it on.”
A few minutes later, I’m in a hoodie and basketball shorts, green goop smeared over my face, parked on the couch with the nanny and my two favorite people in the world.
And they’ve all left their face masks on too.
“We should take a picture of you,” Luna says, nudging my arm.
I can only imagine the hell Rowan and Ford would give me if that shot went anywhere. “Maybe not,” I say.
But Parker’s waggling his phone, siding with his sister for once. “It’ll be funny.”
“It’ll be ammunition for my teammates,” I grumble.
Sabrina gives me an I dare you look. “Like Rowan wouldn’t do it for Mia,” she says.
Damn. She’s right. He’s the guy who braids his daughter’s hair every day. Of course, he’d wear a face mask.
“Put it on your socials, Daddy,” Luna says, wearing me down.
Sabrina’s eyes twinkle. “Do it.”
“Do it,” Parker echoes.
“I hardly ever use socials,” I point out, but I’m already remembering one of the last things I posted—a picture of me meeting Sabrina about a year ago.
And yep, here’s my daughter cuing up my feed to show me. “Let me make the post for you,” she says.
“You haven’t even taken a picture yet,” I say, but I’m losing this battle hard and fast.
Luna urges us all together, and before I know it, my daughter is snapping a selfie of the four of us on the couch in our face masks.
As she posts it on my feed, I glance at Sabrina, trying to ignore the way my heart catches being this close to her. And absolutely ignoring the thoughts of tomorrow night, when I’ll have her all alone before Thanksgiving.
“Figured yours would be fancy,” I say softly to her.
She sits up taller, all mock serious. “I really should have worn my tiara.”
“Next time,” I say, and I’m already picturing the next time.
Yeah, I could definitely get used to this.
But that’s also the problem.
Sometime later, as the moonlight streams in through the window, and the hum of the refrigerator is my only companion, I wake to a cardboard sign on my chest that says “Shrek Daddy!”
I’m all alone in the living room, but I hardly feel that way as I wash off the face mask.
Not gonna lie, I’m raring to say goodbye to my kids. If that makes me a bad dad, slap the label on me.
I drop them off at Elle’s place in Darling Springs on Tuesday night, where she’s going to medical school, say my goodbyes, and then peel the fuck out of town. I’m already showered and ready to go.
As I pass the sign for Cozy Valley on the drive back to San Francisco, I swear my friend must feel the disturbance in the force because my phone rings. It’s Corbin. I hit answer on the console.
“Dude, I just drove past your town,” I say.
“Thanks for stopping by.”
“I’m sure you love pop-ins.”
“True. Thanks for not popping by,” he says, then gives me a date and time for the next dads’ group get-together.
“I’ll be there.”
“Good. I need someone who really sucks at bocce ball so my team can win.”
I groan. “Go fuck off.” But I can’t strip the excitement out of my voice. Nothing can bring me down tonight.
“Love you too.” Then he pauses, like something’s on his mind. “What are you doing tonight?” His tone shifts, and he seems intrigued as I pass the sign telling me San Francisco is only thirty miles away. “You sound way more pumped than you usually do.”
Well, that’s one way to put it.
“Just having the place all to myself,” I say, smirking. That’s the secret I’m keeping. The one that’s just between the nanny and me.
“Ah, a date with your hand. Good luck.”
There’s no point in arguing. So I shift gears, and we shoot the breeze about sports the rest of the drive back. Then I’m home. Ready to turn off the world.
Lesson two is about to begin.
27
A POPSICLE LESSON
Tyler
When I walk into the kitchen, Sabrina is standing in front of the fridge, music playing—Amelia Stone’s newest album. There’s an excited look in her eyes. I texted her that I’d be home soon.
“You’re wearing my favorite color,” I say, eyeing the sky-blue top she has on. She’s also playing one of my favorite singers, but I keep that little detail to myself for some reason. Maybe to focus on her.
“Oh, is it?” she asks.
“It sure is. It’s the color of your eyes,” I say, advancing toward her.
“You like it on me?” she teases.
“So much,” I murmur.
She waggles a little red book at me.
I furrow my brow. “What’s that?”
“A sex diary,” she says.
She just gets better and better.