“In the olden days,” I offer. The kid nods. “I hear that was called a boom box.”
Through his giggles, he goes on to explain a scene where the male love interests serenaded the heroine. It must’ve been some cheesy flick the pair watched.
“So that’s your prescription? Your prescription for love?” Mini Dr Phil (or Phillips), the show, suddenly seems farther away.
“Uh-huh. No one ever buys her flowers or perfume or does other nice stuff. I mean, I will when I get big and get a job, but she says first I have to go to college.”
“So I should buy her nice things?” But not heavy things she can chuck at me.
“There was a word she called it. It was kind of like woo!” He pumps his fist in the air.
“Woo,” I repeat quietly as invisible puzzle pieces seem to slot together in my head. What do you know? My kid might just be a child prodigy. Our courtship only lasted no more than a few hours. Then we had a wedding night. Didn’t my old mum always say I’ve done everything arse-backwards?
“Amazing.” I hold my hand up for a high five, which he meets with gusto. “I think you’re onto something, Wild boy.”
Commence Operation: Make Kennedy Fall in Love.
28
Kennedy
PARTY PLAN
“Thirty kids?”
“Yep.” I bite back a smile at the incredulity in Roman’s tone, despite how I feel about the big event. Wilder’s belated seventh birthday party.
Who? Oh, Roman. Yeah, he’s Wilder’s father. What, you didn’t think I made him on my own, did you?
Dreading. It.
Dreading it so much.
It’s a few days before Wilder’s birthday party, and Roman and I are in the kitchen, washing dishes after lunch. Well, one of us is. But I guess he did load the dishwasher after dinner last night. Roman’s been around a lot lately, which makes Wilder so happy. I don’t think I realised what having a father would mean to him. But I see it now. The strange thing is it feels natural seeing Roman’s face at the dinner table. To hear him read Wilder a bedtime story. To share a glass of wine afterward . . .
So I guess more than Wilder is happy about having Roman around, and somehow, I seem to get included in the pair’s plans a lot. But I don’t want to confuse my boy, so we’ve talked a lot about how families differ. How a family isn’t defined by a mom, dad and kids living under the same roof. And Wilder seems to accept that. He seems okay with it, even. But I also see his face light up whenever Roman turns up on the porch. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel something, too. But I’m an adult, and as an adult, I don’t have to act on that.
So here we are, sharing a moment. One of many to follow as we co-parent, I remind myself, twisting my head over my shoulder to smile at him. I should’ve kept my gaze on the window because the sight of him leaning against the countertop makes my heart rate elevate. While a little rumpled and kind of sweaty, he’s bright eyed and all kinds of hot. Literally and figuratively.
I love you, I hear his deep voice say. It plays on a loop in my head.
“Kennedy?”
“Hmm?” And back to reality as I fix my gaze on the garden with a silent curse because I really must stop remembering those words. Nothing good can come of them.
“Thirty of them?” he prompts.
“Yeah.”
“Every single kid in the class?” His muffled voice draws my attention again, just in time to see his face disappear behind the hem of his T-shirt as he wipes his brow. My gaze dips, honing like lasers on his skin. I bite my lip, smothering an aching sigh as I drink in the powerful lines of his body from the ridges of that ridiculous v peeking from his waistband, up the ladder of his abdominals to the proud firmness of his chest. He is so beautifully put together. Long, graceful limbs, strong bones, and a musculature that would make an artist weep. He begins to straighten, my attention snapping back to the window.
“We invited them all.” I’m surprised my voice sounds normal. Boy howdy, that was a reminder I didn’t need, but I appreciated it, I decide, ignoring the flickering pulse between my thighs. To make matters worse, his T-shirt is orange. In fact, orange seems to factor widely in his wardrobe these days. All because Wilder’s momma can’t tell the truth. “But they . . . they won’t all turn up. According to the RSVPs, at least.” I pull Wilder’s Spider-Man plate from the water and place it on the drainer.
“How many dropped out? You’ve counted the RSVPs.”
“What would be the point?” I answer with a tinny laugh. “Some people don’t do either. They just turn up.”