We kept walking in silence, Griffin still in his dad’s arm, our hands still wrapped around one another. Then Jett stopped and dropped my hand. He swept one arm out to the open space in front of us.
“What do you think?”
I couldn’t help but wonder if all the morning sickness was getting to my head because I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. I looked in front of us, then turned around and looked back over the field to where Gramps’s place sat in the distance—but not too far away—before spinning back around to look at my husband.
“Think about what?”
Griffin squirmed to get down. Jett put him on the ground, and he raced around us in a circle, more than happy to just be playing in the field. He and Autumn loved the country space, and we would often take little walks, but again, there was nothing out this way.
Except grass, bugs, and space to run.
My husband's mesmerizing, ocean-blue gaze captured mine before he stunned me with a response.
“The spot for our new home.”
Chapter Forty-Four
JETT
I’d definitely surprised her.
My wife was speechless, but our son was not.
Even though the day had multiple surprises, him being a chatterbox wasn’t one of them. He was a talker for sure, and boy was he fired up about what he had just heard. That only increased the octave at which he talked, along with the rapid speed at which the words flowed from his mouth.
“A house?” His face lit up as he jumped up and down. “We get to have our very own house right here?” He whooped with delight, taking off to run around the field in front of us in a big circle. “Is it this big?” Griffin hollered, waving his hand wildly in the air while taking up as much space as he could but never stopping to gain the answers to his questions. “Can we have a treehouse in the backyard? Where will my room be?”
Once he got going, there was no stopping him. That was unless his brain snagged on something that he felt was more vital than what was currently rushing through it faster than a freight train; then his demeanor changed in a heartbeat.
I chuckled outright—because my little guy was toofucking cute—when that was exactly what happened. The wind evaporated from his sails, and he came to a screeching halt about five feet from his mother and me, the expression on his face all business now.
“Listen to me, okay?” Champ held up one finger like he was just beginning his first order of business, which we soon realized was true. “I think my room should be right next to my brother or sister.” He flicked up another small finger. “It’s my job to protect them.” Another finger joined the other two. “I’ll play with the baby and feed them.” Now four fingers were in the air. “I’m going to babysit too so you guys can have…” he paused, clearly—by the look on his face—thinking about his next words, “so you can have those adult times.”
Patience and I both made some crazy noise, most likely both thinking where the hell our son learned about?—
I didn’t get to finish that thought because he continued, thankfully bringing my pounding heart back to a somewhat normal rhythm. I’d been freaking the fuck out inside, wondering how I’d explain shit to my five-year-old that I never should have to at his age.
“You can have dates, watch movies, and just have free time.”
My wife let out an adorable, unladylike snort as I chuckled.
Leaning in close, I ran my hand down her back and whispered, “Good thing he really doesn’t know what I plan to do with you during free time.”
She sucked in a deep breath, and I felt the shiver that danced down her spine under the pads of my fingers. I loved that I had such an effect on her because my wife sure did on me. When Griffin flung a fifth finger in the air, a sour look on his face, our attention was back on our son.
“I draw the line at changing poopy diapers.” He tilted hishead for a second. “All diapers,” he added. “Okay? Does that work?”
God, this kid.
I tilted my head back and sent up a silent thank you to the clouds for putting Patience and Griffin in my life. Then I added another one for the fact that he looked so much like the gorgeous lady beside me—not like the asshat who donated sperm.
“I just can’t do diapers,” our son added when we hadn’t answered.
Shaking my head as laughter rumbled inside me, but I held it in at his very serious expression, I looked at Patience, brows raised. “What do you think, Momma?”
She tapped her chin, pretending to give it some thought, and then looked at Griffin. “I think we can handle the diapers.”
He threw a tiny arm in the air in triumph. “Yes.”
