“Sweetheart, he’s not a pair of dirty boxers. Hold him against you.”
I held him closer.
“Sit him down on your hip and keep one hand on his rump, the other on the back of his head.”
“I’m scared of dropping him.”
“You’re not going to drop him.” Mom repositioned my hold until the kid was safely perched on my hipbone.
He was way heavier than he looked.
Mom unfastened the carrier and turned to hang it, then instead of relieving me of my charge, she disappeared into the kitchen.
“You forgot Storm.”
“I didn’t forget him. I’m going to make him some milk.”
“What am I supposed to do with him?”
“Just keep him entertained.”
“How?”
“Tell him a story.” Mom’s voice drifted from the kitchen. “You’ve got a great imagination.”
I peered down at Storm. Found him observing me with a disquieting intensity that puckered his forehead and made his eyebrows almost kiss. I racked my brain for an age-appropriate story. Maybe one about dragons. Or wolves. He surely liked wolves.
He reached out and seized one of my hoodie’s drawstrings, his attention dropping to the gray cord.
“Yeah, it’s probably a good idea to hold on, buddy. I have no clue what I’m doing.”
He cracked a tentative smile. I counted eight teeth.
“You’re quite a looker, aren’t you?”
One side of his mouth tugged up a little higher as though he were tossing me a saucy wink.
I laughed, which made his green eyes brighten. “You’re going to be a heartbreaker. I can already tell.” In the back of my mind, I thought,just like your daddy, although I had no clue if Liam was a heartbreaker. All I knew was that he’d gottenhisheart broken the day Storm’s mother passed.
To think Storm would never know his mom. Gosh, that was sad. I couldn’t imagine a world without my mother. As though sensing the tragic turn of my thoughts, Storm’s own smile vanished, and he was back to being Mr. Serious.
“When I was younger, my favorite story was Robin Wolf. Want to hear it?”
His little mouth stayed locked shut.
“Right. You can’t talk yet.”
He didn’t make a peep as my lips shaped the shifter-revised version of Robin Hood. His eyes went wider at all the key moments, which made me think he understood what I was telling him. Even if he didn’t though, he was a way better audience than all of my brothers combined.
“You tell that story so well.” Mom was leaning against the doorframe, milk bottle in hand.
The moment Storm spotted his meal—or maybe he’d scented it—he started squirming.
Mom walked toward us, but instead of taking him from me, she handed me the bottle. I was so surprised that I held it out of the kid’s reach, which made him start sobbing. Full-on tears and all. I plopped the silicone teat inside his mouth, which made him startle, and I worried I’d choked him, but then he gripped it with both palms and gulped the contents down like a starved man.
“Feeling better, little man?”
“You should sit down with him.”
