I suck in a breath and realize the only thing busting now is whatever’s creaking in my back.
Quietly, I click ignore on the phone and try to get back to sleep.
Which is a lost cause.
Right now, I’m pinned under a pile of small, warm humans who treat my body like a dog bed.
Sophie’s drooling on my shoulder. Ollie’s foot is jammed somewhere between my ribs and kidney. And the air carries that unmistakable warning that someone definitely let one go.
Thank God it wasn’t my lethal teenager.
Knowing Connor, he’s probably face-down on the couch after another all-night Halo marathon, pumped full of way more energy drinks than he’s technically allowed to have.
But, it’s a requirement when in a highly competitive death match with Uncle Zac.
Calling one of them a grown man is debatable.
When a third string of buzzes hits, I give up.
A half hour more. Is that too much to ask?
After that, I’m back on duty as maid, cook, chauffeur, snack bitch, and pack mule to Sophie and Ollie.
Connor’s excluded from that last part. Teen Hulk can carry his own shit.
I yawn and grab the phone before it wakes my hellion tribe into their usual zombie shuffle for Cheerios and Saturday Marvel reruns.
“Evans,” I say, hushed, without looking at the screen.
“Did I wake you, princess?”
I smirk. Smartass.
“Hang on,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand down my face. Years of conditioning kick in hard.
No sudden movements. No loud noises.
Slow and well-trained, I peel Snooki off me like a minivan decal. Then I shift my weight, careful not to wake the kid sporting a self-inflicted lightning bolt across his forehead.
Which reminds me. I need to google how to get Sharpie off a nine-year-old.
Then I slip out of the bedroom and make my way to the living room, where Connor is comatose in front of the big screen.
Sprawled out, his long teenage limbs are flung everywhere. One more inch, and he’d make a great chalk outline of a giraffe at a crime scene.
The kid has a perfectly good bed upstairs. Why he refuses to use it is beyond me.
I sidestep one of his enormous shoes. The ones he’s about to outgrow.
Note to self: stop feeding the teenager.
A muffled, “Are you there?” has me rushing. I promptly trip over the other one, landmine dead-center in the floor, and slam my pinky toe into the square leg of the coffee table.
Fuck! I swear.
Silently, of course. Years of SEAL ops and parenthood ensure all pre-dawn profanity is hardwired to my inside voice.
When my next step lands in something suspiciously sticky, I promptly file it under Yell at Someone Later.
