“Have you had breakfast?”
He shakes his head, his blond hair falling across his forehead.
“Well, let’s make some. Do you like eggs? Pancakes? Waffles?”
“Pan-cakes,” he says quietly.
It’s the first full word I’ve heard him speak, other than Mama.
Aurora and Reece are sipping their coffees at the kitchen table when we enter.
“Morning.” Aurora smiles. “Someone made a friend.”
Danny points at Reece. “King.”
TheVikinggrins. “Good job, buddy,” he praises then asks me, “Harper sleeping? You want me to take him?”
Tiny arms tighten around my neck, nearly choking me. “No. Jax,” he pronounces clearly.
Reece rolls his eyes, and I chuckle.
“Uncle Reece is scary, isn’t he?” I gesture to my wife. “Can you say Aurora?” I articulate her name slowly.
Danny opens his mouth wide and unleashes a sound somewhere between a lion’s roar and a war cry, sending us into fits of laughter. I guess Aurora equals roar. Close enough.
After raiding the pantry for ingredients to make pancakes, I have Danny perched on the island beside me, his legs swinging as I whisk eggs and add them to the dry mix.
“Milk?” He lifts the full measuring cup.
It sounds like ‘miwk,’ but I understand him perfectly.
“Yes, Chef,” I reply with exaggerated seriousness, earning a giggle from both him and Aurora. “Go ahead, Chef.”
He pours the liquid with surprising precision. Not a drop spills over the edge of the bowl—a stark improvement on our earlier egg-cracking fiasco that left me fishing out shell fragments and cleaning yolk from the floor.
Reece sips his coffee, his posture relaxed for once. “Harper might murder you for stealing him and allowing him to make a mess.”
“He was outside our door. What was I supposed to do, leave him in the hallway? He could’ve fallen down the stairs. Besides, I’ll clean the mess.”
Reece shakes his head with amusement. “I’m having a hard time believing you didn’t sneak in and take him.”
Ethan breezes into the kitchen, wearing worn jeans and a light-gray Henley that matches his eyes, a manila envelope in hand. His hair is damp and extra wavy, his jaw tight with tension.
He takes a seat at the island across from me, his cologne filling my senses, and my stomach dips.
“What kind of pancakes do you want, little man?” I struggle to keep my voice light and unaffected.
“Chocwat!”
He grabs the package of semi-sweet morsels and, before I can stop him, dumps the bag into the batter. A good portion misses the bowl entirely and spills onto the counter. His small hands chase after the chocolate chips, stuffing handfuls into his mouth.
I chuckle and poke his belly. “Hey, save some for the pancakes.”
He lets out a melodic laugh that warms my chest.
Ethan’s gaze locks with mine, his eyes soft. “What conference has the fewest travel miles?”
I look away, unable to handle the emotion swimming in those stormy depths, and stir the chocolate-chip-laden batter with more force than necessary. “Eastern.” It’s common knowledge that the Eastern Conference travels much less.
