“Yep.”
Nash stops abruptly in the middle of my bedroom, and I nearly walk into him. “Nash,” I exclaim. “What are you doing?”
He points at me accusingly. “You’re not listening to me, papa!”
I sigh, wondering when my little boy suddenly started growing up. “I’m sorry, my mind was elsewhere.”
“Where’d it go?” Nash asks curiously, giving a little squeal when I swing him up to ride on my shoulders. He kicks his legs happily as we walk down the stairs.
I tap his leg with my hand, the other clutching the picnic basket Nash insisted on putting together. “I was thinking about your mama.”
“Oh.” Nash grows silent for a moment. “Why?”
I squeeze his leg gently. “Wondering if she would have liked cockroaches with sugar on them,” I tease.
“Ewww!”
We fall into our own thoughts, Nash mumbling about various other disgusting concoctions as I duly make appropriate disgusted noises to make him laugh.
“Nash,” I say suddenly. “How would you feel about Ava staying with us?”
My son stops kicking his legs. “Like… forever?” he asks.
Sensing the hesitancy in his voice, my heart sinks. “Maybe? How would you feel about that?”
Nash is silent.
“Would she be my mom?” he asks finally. My legs go numb at his hopeful words, and my hand shoots out to the wall.Oh, Nash.
“Emery was your momma, Nashy,” I say, my heart hurting. “But Ava would become part of our pack.”
“The Grey pack!” Nash makes a roaring sound and shakes his fist, and I have to laugh at his abrupt change in thought despite the ache in my chest. “Who taught you that?”
“Uncle Bastien,” he says, abashed. “He says every pack should have their own pack roar.”
I smother my smile. “Oh, absolutely.”
Nash rests his head on top of mine. “Do you think Ava wants to come for a picnic?”
“I think so. She might be busy, though,” I say it gently, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “But it’s nice to ask, right?” I ignore the nerves drumming inside my chest as Nash excitedly agrees with me.
I mean, jam sandwiches with me and my six-year-old probably isn’t the smoothest date ever.
Does it even count? I cringe a little.
“We can show Ava the lake, too,” Nash mumbles into the top of my head. “She probably hasn’t seen it yet.”
“Probably not.”
As we walk into the living area, Luc storms out of the kitchen, his face drawn into tight lines of anger.
“Uncle Luc!” Nash waves, and Luc raises his hand half-heartedly. My head swings between him and the kitchen, and I swing Nash down as he protests.
“Nash, we need some sticks to make a fire,” I think quickly, and his nose wrinkles. “But it’s so hot!”
“Yes, but the weather can change quickly out here, so just in case. You don’t want Ava to get cold, right?”
My son gives me a disbelieving look but trudges obediently out of the door. As soon as he’s out of sight, Luc lets loose a feral snarl.
