I set the phone back on the nightstand and returned to watching the ceiling fan, but now the rhythm felt different. Instead of meditation, it was anticipation.
Creak.
Waiting.
Creak.
Hoping.
Creak.
That maybe—just maybe—I hadn’t imagined the magic of tonight after all.
Chapter 11
Theo
The alarm clock screamed for what felt like hours before I finally managed to slap it into submission.
Seven-fifteen.
Shit.
I was supposed to be up at six-thirty, which meant Debbie should have been dressed and eating breakfast by now instead of still tangled in her sheets like a tiny burrito.
“We’ve gotta hurry, Button,” I called from the hallway, my voice still rough with sleep. “Daddy overslept.”
A muffled groan emerged from her bedroom, followed by the telltale sound of someone burrowing deeper under covers.
I stumbled into the kitchen and started the coffee maker on autopilot, my brain still foggy from restless dreams spent replaying dinner conversations and worrying about sick children and trying not to think about blue eyes and the way Jeremiah’s smile had made my chest feel warm and tight all at once.
It was one date, Theo. One interrupted date. Get a grip.
And yet, I couldn’t stop questions from bubbling to the fore.
Was Jeremiah upset about having to cut our evening short?
He’d seemed understanding in the moment. He was even sweet about it, but maybe he’d gone home and realized he didn’t want to deal with the complications of dating someone with a five-year-old. Maybe—
“Daddy, I can’t find my purple shirt!” Debbie’s voice cut through my spiral of morning anxiety. Life with a child was rarely one of reflection. The little bugger didn’t give me a moment’s peace to think that deeply.
“The one with the unicorn?”
“No, the one with the sparkly star!”
I reluctantly abandoned my coffee and trudged toward her room, where I found her standing in the middle of what looked like a textile explosion. Clothes covered every surface—the bed, the floor, clinging for life from her door handle, draped over her toy chest like colorful surrender flags.
“Debbie, what happened in here?”
“I was looking for my shirt.” She said this with the matter-of-fact tone of someone who saw nothing unusual about destroying an entire room in pursuit of one garment. Tiny balled fists were planted on bony hips, and her lower lip was pooched out so far I worried it might get stuck that way. The cuteness of her irritation overcame any annoyance at the cleaning we’d have to do later.
I spotted the purple shirthanging in her closet—exactly where it was supposed to be—and brought it to her. “Arms up.”
She complied, and I wrestled the shirt over her head while trying to calculate how much time we’d lost to the Great Sparkly Star Shirt Hunt.
“Did you brush your teeth?” I asked once her tunic was in place.
“Yes.”
