“Can I help?” I offered.
“You are helping.”
“I’m just sitting here.”
“Exactly. Your beautiful face and tousled hair is all the inspiration I need.”
I laughed. “That makes no sense.” But I wasn’t about to argue any further. I fixed breakfast for a very picky six-year-old boy every morning. A break from cooking was well in order.
“You want to help. Tell me about Diego.”
My eyebrow raised. “My son?”
He nodded, staring down at the bowl he was now mashing up two overripe bananas in. “You said he’s the most important thing in your life. Tell me about him.”
My heartstrings tugged at the thought of my little boy. “I was twenty-three when he was born, and from the day he entered this world he’s been the center of mine.”
He glanced up at me with smiling eyes and I felt safe enough to continue.
“He was the sweetest baby. Only crying when he was really hungry or needed to be changed. He’d go to just about anybody.” I laughed. “He’s still like that today. He’s never met a stranger. He’s in the second grade and does well in all his classes, but the only common complaint from teachers since he was in preschool, was that his teachers can’t get him to stop talking.” I grinned, shaking my head. “Earlier this school year, I went to a parent-teacher conference and the teacher complained about his talking. I asked Diego about it and he said‘It’s not my fault, Mama. Michael's new to our school and didn’t have any friends. I just wanted him to feel welcomed.’How am I supposed to get mad at that?”
“You got me there. I hope you took him out for ice cream.”
I giggled. “I actually did. He’s so sensitive, and wants everyone to feel included. My sweet boy.”
“He sounds like a good kid.”
“He’s the best. Except when he insists I make his blueberry pancakes and eggs every morning for his breakfast.”
“Every morning?” Carter moved to the other side of me, placing a pan on one of the eye’s of the stove.
“Yup.” I nodded. “He will only eat my blueberry pancakes and eggs. Homemade by the way. He refuses anything from the box. And I have to pack his lunches every morning because he will only eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cut into triangles, that have been made by Mom or Grandma. He insists on fruit with his lunch, but it has to be cut up, no matter what type of fruit. Even his grapes must be cut in half.”
“He sounds like a riot,” he laughed, flipping the first two slices of French toast.
“That smells delicious.” I nodded at the pan.
“It’ll taste even better.”
“I bet it will.”
Our eyes caught and before I knew it, Carter was in front of me, taking his fill of my lips before moving back to the stove. I licked my lips, savoring the kiss that hadn’t lasted long enough.
“What about his father?”
My body froze, a thread of fear moving down my spine. I’d almost forgotten about Gabriel. I wished I could forget all about him. I turned back to Carter’s whose eyes were on the stove. I was sure he’d missed my bodily reaction at the mention of Diego’s father.
“He’s not in the picture. Not really.”
He dredged another slice of bread through the banana and egg mixture before placing it into the hot pan. He lowered the temperature of the stove’s eye before turning fully to me again.
“He’s not around?”
I swallowed and took a sip of the bottle of water he’d given me earlier.
“Not regularly. He’s been inconsistent.”
“Does he provide financial support?”
