I drop the fake smile. “I think he’s coming this time, baby.”
Tommy doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t argue. “Whatever.”
God, I hate Erik for being so damn unreliable. After years of being let down, Tommy doesn’t trust him anymore.
No eight-year-old should be this jaded.
“Jackson, it’s your turn for a shower, mister.” I give his shoulder a little push towards the door.
“Aww!” he groans dramatically, flopping backwards onto the half-inflated mattress. “Do I have to?”
“Yes, you do.” I plant my hands on my hips and give him my best mom look. “You’re a stinky little pig, and Santa won’t bring you presents next week if you smell bad.”
Jackson giggles, rolling off the mattress. “I’m not a pig!”
“Could’ve fooled me.” I tap his nose playfully. “I can practically see the mud behind your ears.”
He giggles again and runs his hands over his ears. “There’s no mud!”
I shrug my shoulders. “I guess you’d better get in that shower and make sure.”
With a dramatic sigh, Jackson trudges toward the bathroom. “Fine.”
Tommy watches his brother go, then turns to me. “Dad’s not good with Jackson’s diabetes.”
I blow out a heavy breath. This is one of the hard parts of co-parenting. As much as I agree with Tommy, I refuse to say anything bad about his father in front of him. He doesn’t deserve that. “There’s nothing for you to worry about, sweetie. I’m going to make sure he has all the supplies and instructions. And you’ll be there to help, too, right?”
Tommy nods solemnly, taking his role as big brother so seriously that it makes me want to cry. “I won’t let anything bad happen to him.”
“I know you won’t.” I pull him into a hug, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “You’re the best big brother ever.”
He hugs me back tightly, then pulls away with a yawn. “I’m tired.”
“Let me get these covers on this thing, and then you and Bubby can get into bed.”
Staringup at the ceiling in my own room for the first time in years, I listen to the house creak and settle around me. Through the thin walls, I can hear the soft sounds of my boys’ breathing as they sleep.
Despite how exhausted I am from working all day and then hauling moving boxes into the house, sleep feels a million miles away.
My mind keeps circling back to Erik’s call and all the ways things could go wrong.
He doesn’t know about Jackson’s new insulin regimen. He doesn’t know that Tommy has nightmares sometimes. He doesn’t know anything about our son’s lives because he’s never bothered to be part of them.
Sighing, my thoughts drift to the man next door.
Dread.
What kind of name is that, anyway? It should be intimidating, and he certainly looks the part with all those tattoos covering his muscular arms. I bite my lip, remembering the way his biceps flexed when he was working on his motorcycle. The man is built like a brick house—solid chest, broad shoulders, powerful thighs in those worn jeans.
And his face... damn.
Those green eyes, the color of sea glass, rimmed with impossibly long dark lashes. And that strong jaw with just the right amount of scruff that would feel so good between my?—
Down girl.
I fan my heated cheeks.
A biker with a body like that and a face to match? He probably has women throwing themselves at him left and right.
