“Rayden, look what I drawed!” He shoves a piece of paper into Brayden’s hand.
Brayden stoops to his haunches and studies the drawing. “Oh, wow. Tell me about it, buddy. Who are these people?”
“It’s you and me.” He points to the paper. “And that’s Santa.”
“This is so good. You’re a very talented artist.”
“You can keep it,” Noah says, his little chest puffing with pride.
“Are you sure?”
Noah nods eagerly, and Brayden takes the drawing to the bulletin board between his big office windows. The board is filled with work schedules, marketing plans, and other official-looking documents, but Brayden tacks my son’s picture in the center.
I place my hand over the funny feeling in my chest. Like something in there is surging and growing and freezing all at once. Hope and gratitude and terror.
“I’ll put it here so I remember Christmas is coming every time I get stressed with work.” He bends down and scoops my son up into his arms. “What do you say you and I cook the chicken on the grill and let your mom relax until dinner?”
“Can I help you?” Noah asks eagerly.
“Yeah, bud. You have to be careful around the grill, but you can make sure I don’t burn anything.”
Noah wraps his arms around Brayden, and they head out of the office toward the kitchen. My heart swells even as my protective instincts wash over me. Brayden would never intentionally hurt Noah—I know it in my bones—but eventually Noah and I will move out, and Brayden will move on with a life that doesn’t include my son. I want to protect my boy from heartache, but I can’t keep him from connecting with Brayden while we’re here. He’s been drawn to the man since we moved to Jackson Harbor and Noah met him for the first time. I know Noah is better off with more people in his life. He needs more than his mom and nana.
I follow the boys to the kitchen. Brayden has already positioned Noah on a stool in front of the sink and is helping him wash potatoes.
I open the fridge to pull out the salad fixings.
“What are you doing?” Brayden asks when I put the tomatoes on the counter.
“Helping?”
He shakes his head. “Pour yourself a glass of wine and sit. Noah and I’ve got this, don’t we, bud?”
“We got this!” Noah says.
Brayden
Molly is always gorgeous, but I think the lounging, pre-bedtime Molly might be the hardest to resist.
She’s sitting on my couch with a book. She’s still wearing that ridiculous Jackson Brews brothers T-shirt and those black yoga pants that hug the curve of her ass, and her blond hair is piled in a messy knot on top of her head. After four days here, she’s finally getting comfortable. The first three nights, she asked for permission before turning on the TV or sitting in the living room with a book—always so worried she was going to disturb me. But tonight, after she put Noah down, she grabbed her book and sprawled out on the leather sofa in the family room, her legs stretched out before her, her feet bare.
Dinner was a success, but more importantly, Molly actually sat down and let Noah and me prepare it for her. She insisted on helping with cleanup afterward, but at least I got her to let me make the meal. With the exception of the thirty minutes she relaxes with a book or a TV show at the end of the day, she’s always going, and I considered it a personal victory to get her to sit down before dinner.
She lifts her gaze from her book and narrows her eyes at me. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Because you’re stunning. “Like what?”
She frowns and puts her book down. “Like you’re trying to figure me out.”
I don’t try to pretend I wasn’t staring. Why bother? When she’s close, I can’t help but look. “I’m just wondering how you do it all. Supermom, employee of the year, life of the party—you’re everything to everyone.”
She snorts. “Trust me, I fail often. But I’m holding you to the employee-of-the-year thing.”
“Oh, absolutely. I’ve already ordered the trophy.”
“Ha! I’m sure you have. Too bad I won’t be around to see it.”
I frown. “I thought we got past that. Still planning on leaving me?” My voice cracks a little on the me, and I feel exposed. Don’t go. Jesus, please don’t go.
“No, not that.” She rolls her head to the side and rubs her shoulder. “I won’t be around because you and your brothers are trying to kill me with those stupid workouts.”
“Sore?”
Closing her eyes, she nods. “So sore.”
“I was going to soak in the hot tub tonight.” I hold her gaze. “You could join me.”
“My swimsuits are in storage.”
I arch a brow. “Who said you needed a suit?”
It’s too fun—watching the pink flush of her cheeks, her mouth opening and closing for a beat before she remembers her tough act and lifts her chin. “We’re not climbing into that hot tub together naked.”