Total pages in book: 20
Estimated words: 18620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 93(@200wpm)___ 74(@250wpm)___ 62(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 18620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 93(@200wpm)___ 74(@250wpm)___ 62(@300wpm)
I carry him out to the kitchen and set him on his little stool. I wince looking around the spotless kitchen, knowing it’s about to look like a war zone.
What’s supposed to be pancakes ends up looking like anything but. Jordan’s "help" consists of handing him mixing spoons and dodging his attempts to smear batter across the counter.
Once we finish cooking, I sit Jordan in his highchair to eat his breakfast while I clean up the ungodly mess. It takes another hour and almost a full roll of paper towels. I'm already exhausted, and it's barely seven am. I don’t know how my wife does this every day. She’s a goddamn warrior.
By the time I'm finally finished, the kitchen looks as good as new. Now, I need to clean up Jordan before I wake up my wife.
Once I finally get my wiggly son all cleaned up, I need a shower myself. I put on his favorite cartoon and set him up with his special “blankie” on the sofa. “I’m going wake up Mommy. You watch Bluey and be good.”
Jordan’s completely absorbed in the show. He nods his head, barely noticing as I walk away.
I tiptoe into our room, expecting to find Willow still asleep, but the bed's empty. I glance over and see the light shining from the partially open bathroom door.
I knock on the door. “You okay, Spitfire?”
She emerges a few moments later with a glare so intense it could curdle milk. Even without the angry frown, I know things aren't going well. Her eyes are red and puffy.
"How's my amazing wife feeling this morning?" I ask, trying for my usual lighthearted tone.
Her eyes narrow as she points at the hardly visible curve of her tummy. "Your baby's being difficult." The emphasis on "your" is unmistakable.
I take her hand and lead her back to the bed. “Why don’t you go back to bed? I’ll take Chewy and Jordan to the park to run off a little energy.”
“I love you,” she grumbles and snuggles back under the covers. “You’re the best husband ever.”
“I love you, too.” I pull the covers over her and gently tuck them in around her before kissing her again. When I scoop Chewy up, the fluffy little weasel snuggles into my arms with suspicious eagerness.
“Don’t forget they never make it all the way down the trails,” she calls after me, and I only manage a chuckle. She already knows I'll be carrying both of them back if we go down the long trail.
The park is full of sunshine and the sounds of children playing. My son loves to play at the park, but Chewy is far less enthusiastic. He looks unimpressed with the whole affair, sitting by me with a bored expression as if this entire trip was a punishment for his previous day's disobedience. He's obviously plotting his revenge.
While the little dog pouts, I watch Jordan run around nonstop. When my son starts to droop, I know he’s had enough playtime.
I lift Jordan up against my chest and give Chewy’s leash a little tug, but the dog refuses to move. Fucking hell. "Guess we're doing this again," I mutter under my breath as I scoop the little dog up under my other arm. The smug look on Chewy's face confirms the little shit is getting a kick out of this. “I swear I’m putting you on the cheap dog food,” I tell him, but we both know I’m lying.
As Jordan chatters the entire ride home, I realize how fortunate I am to be the first agent off the elevator the day we raided Oscar Cavani’s office. Finding my little spitfire was a stroke of luck, and I won’t ever stop thanking my lucky stars.