“Better?” I ask quietly.
He nods. Sniffles once.
“I’m sorry,” Landon whispers. “I just… I didn’t want the fun to end. I didn’t want today to be over.”
I cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing the tear tracks on his cheeks.
“I know,” I say. “I know, baby boy.”
He leans into my touch.
I kiss his forehead. Then his nose. Then his mouth—soft, slow, tasting sugar and salt.
“Come on,” I murmur against his lips. “Let’s get in the car.”
He nods again.
I open the passenger door for my boy. He slides in gingerly, wincing as his tender bottom meets the seat. I circle to the driver’s side, start the engine, and crank the heat.
Before I put the car in gear I reach into the center console and pull out a small tube of cooling gel—the kind athletes use, mentholated, instant relief. I hold it up.
“Bend over the seat,” I tell him. “We’ll get this butt cooled off just a little and then you can pull your briefs and jeans back up like a big boy.”
My disciplined Little doesn’t argue.
He twists, braces his hands on the rear seatback, and arches his back so his bottom lifts toward me.
I squeeze a generous dollop of gel onto my fingers and smooth it over his cheeks—gentle circles, careful pressure. He sighs as the cold sinks in, tension melting from his spine.
“Better?” I ask again.
“So much better,” Landon breathes.
I pull his clothes back into place, help him settle properly in the seat, and fasten his belt.
He looks at me with soft, grateful eyes.
“Thank you, Daddy.”
I lean over the console and kiss him once more, lingering this time.
“You’re welcome, little one.”
I put the car in reverse, back out of the spot, and head for the exit ramp.
The day isn’t over yet, but at least now I know I have a boy who has a fresh reminder to do as his Daddy tells him—and the deeper we get into this situation, the more important that could become…
Chapter 15
Landon
We decide against another anonymous motel.
After the parking-lot incident and the lingering sting that still makes sitting uncomfortable, neither of us wants another night of thin walls, flickering neon, and the constant feeling of being exposed.
Ivan suggests a bed-and-breakfast instead—something quieter, tucked away in a small town about forty minutes farther north. He finds it on his burner phone while we’re still in the mall parking garage: Whispering Pines B&B, four stars on a travel site, photos of lace curtains, floral quilts, and a wraparound porch strung with fairy lights. The kind of place older couples visit for anniversaries or quiet weekends away from the city.
It’scute.
