An arm was wrapped around me. There wasn’t a millimeter of space between me and Patrick, my leg draped over him and my arm over the two of them.
I didn’t move for fear of waking them. Patrick’s features were smooth, those lines of worry that usually creased his eyes nowhere to be found. He came off as a happy-go-lucky type of guy, but there was something more. I felt it.
That pissed me off. I didn’t have room for any more feelings. I endeavored not to feel anything, except when it came to my son. It hurt too much.
“Feeling better?” His rough voice raised goosebumps on my skin.
“Yeah.”
Neither of us made any attempt to move. My heart beat a little harder in my chest.
“When do you need to be at Holt’s?”
“No certain time,” I said softly. “I need to go home and get clean clothes.”
“You just wearing old T-shirts?” I nodded. “Borrow one of mine. I won’t tell anybody you wore the same jeans twice.”
I scowled, but wasn’t actually angry. “Everybody wears the same jeans more than once.”
“Not ones as filthy as yours.”
“I see you wake up being an ass.” For once, there was no bite though.
“How! Ass!”
“He’s expanding his vocabulary.” Patrick grinned.
I jerked away, rolling my eyes. I could hate Patrick Whitley when he was being an asshole, but when he was sweet and funny—and drool-worthy in his morning sleepiness—that was much harder. I needed to get out of here. My son and Patrick wore matching pouts as I got out of bed.
But my little one would need his diaper changed and some breakfast stat, or we’d start the day with him in a foul mood. Like his mother.
“How do you feel about seeing Grandpa?” I infused false cheer in my voice.
“How. Ass.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Dad was going to die when Blake sprung his new word on him in public.
I’d never been around kids much before I had Blake, so I’d been unsure of growth development timelines. After a lot of reading and a chat with the pediatrician, I’d learned kids did things at their own paces. Some toddlers were more talkative by the time they were my son’s age. Some were not. And that was okay. Blake would say more when he was ready. I wouldn’t push.
Patrick rolled out of bed. His back muscles flexed as he stretched above his head. “Mind making some coffee? I need to get on with it.”
My make your own damn coffee came out as a “sure.” He disappeared into the bathroom, and I wandered downstairs.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror. My hair was a rat’s nest where I’d slept on it wet. I was pale and looked more exhausted than I felt.
“Don’t tell Patrick we took a banana.” I shifted Blake on my hip and peeled back the skin.
He smushed the piece I broke off for him between his fingers and smeared most of it on his face.
“The point is to get it in your mouth.” I demonstrated with my own piece, and he giggled.
This time he spread the banana on my cheek.
“You’re a silly man.”
“You two are having too much fun for this hour.” Patrick strolled in, dressed and ready to kill in a crisp navy suit.
“What is that noise?” I asked as he grabbed a couple of mugs from the cabinet.
“Noise?” He pulled his phone from his pocket. “It’s called T.I. And he’s awesome.”
He turned up the volume and sang along while he filled our coffee cups. I accepted the one he offered, but nearly gagged when I got a whiff.
“Take this back.”
“Did you poison it?”
“No, you ass. It’s making me nauseous.”
“Ass!”
“Wonder where he picked that up?” He set my cup back on the counter. “I thought you felt better.”
“I do. Did. That just—” I turned my nose up and stuffed another bite of banana in my mouth.
Patrick kissed Blake’s head and stole his own bite from what was left of the fruit. Of course, Blake giggled. This kid.
“Want me to call you a cab to get to your dad’s?”
“I need to talk to him. I hadn’t asked him to take Blake today, and I didn’t hear from him last night. Which is weird,” I said with annoyance. I was still angry that he hadn’t called me about taking Blake to Patrick’s office. What was that about? Dad was normally very honest and forthcoming.
“That’s odd.” I rolled my eyes, something I seemed to do a bit around Patrick. “But you know he wouldn’t have asked me to take Blake and Ella if he hadn’t been needed by Mrs. Quinn.”
That was the problem with talking to a lawyer. They always looked for a reason and justification for someone’s actions.
“He should have gotten a message to me.”
“Agreed. But he knew Blake was in safe hands. And . . . well, Mrs. Quinn is good for him.”
“There was a time he’d never ditch his grandson for a woman.” I hated the words as they came out of my mouth. My dad did deserve to be happy. Deep down I knew that, but I was still hurt and angry. Would that ever go away?
Patrick took another sip of his coffee—making me envious—and propped his hip against the counter. I felt like I was about to get a lecture, so I grabbed a Kleenex and started wiping banana off Blake’s fingers. I needed to get a wet towel. I needed to get out of—
“What would make you happy, Wicked?”
For my life to go back to how it used to be.
“Nothing.” I pressed my lips to Blake’s temple and whispered, “I love you.”
“He’s what you live for.”
I glared at him. “That’s how all parents are.”
He gave me an unimpressed look. I knew from first-hand experience how true and false that statement was.
“It’s too bad if yours weren’t,” I continued, in full defense mode.
“You don’t know anything about them.”
“Because you never talk about your family.”
“What needs to happen here?” He took Blake from me as if
