“I will if you promise to do the same. If you want space, I expect you to be honest with me.”
“I promise.”
“Good.” She nods to herself. “That’s settled.”
Contemplating the strange exchange, I continue on my way to the kitchen where I find Dante and Noah in front of the stove. Dante is barefoot, still dressed in the pajama bottoms that ride low on his hips and the white T-shirt that shows off his tan and his muscles under the soft cotton. Noah stands next to him on a stepladder with a spatula in his hand.
A strong feeling of déjà vu hits me. The sensation is so intense that I’m momentarily thrown off balance. The nostalgia is almost painful.
As if sensing my presence, Dante glances over his shoulder. The look he shoots me gives me butterflies.
“Grab a seat, darling. You’re just in time for the house special.”
I pad closer and peer over Noah’s shoulder. “Pancakes?”
“Look, Mommy.” Noah points at the pan. “They have chocolate chips.”
“Mm.” I slip my arms around Dante’s waist and kiss his back. “That does look good.”
Dante switches off the gas and turns around to pull me into an embrace. His voice is husky. “Tastes good too.”
He presses a lingering kiss on my lips that makes my stomach lurch with untimely desire.
“Do you want some, Mommy?”
Dante breaks the kiss and pulls away from me reluctantly. “There’s bacon in the oven.”
He grabs Noah around the waist before lifting him into the air and flying him like an airplane, complete with the noise, to a chair at the island counter.
Noah laughs like only a happy child can laugh, reveling in the attention.
Once he’s seated, Dante serves us. While Noah dribbles an unhealthy amount of syrup over his pancakes, Dante pours me coffee. As I bring the mug to my lips, he pushes a stack of brochures over the counter toward me.
I glance at the glossy booklets. “What are these?”
He sits down and pulls me onto his lap. “Prospectives schools for Noah.”
I fan through the collection. “These are all private and very exclusive.”
He wraps an arm around my waist and puts his hand on my leg. “You say that as if those are bad things.”
My skin catches fire where his fingers are splayed over the outside of my thigh. “I’m just worried that their methodology may not be right for Noah.”
Rubbing a thumb over my leg, he studies me. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
I went to one of those schools, and I know the price I paid. “I don’t want to push him into a mold that may squash his creativity and ignore his unique strengths and weaknesses in lieu of some elitist group of academics’ idea of success and conformity. I just want him to be happy.”
He considers that for a moment. “I went to one of those schools for boys, and I was happy.” His lips quirk. “More or less.”
“I wasn’t.”
“All right,” he says slowly. “You know Noah better than anyone. I’ll let you decide.”
At that unexpected declaration, a warm, fuzzy feeling spreads through me. He’s showing me that he trusts me, that, despite my selective amnesia, he trusts me to know my child. He trusts me enough to leave one of the biggest decisions we can make about our son’s future in my hands.
Of course I’m not going to make the decision on my own. I want to visit the schools and speak to the teachers, and I want Dante to be present. His opinion is important to me. But he has no idea how much his faith in me means. Like the congenial dinner of last night, I didn’t know how much I needed that vote of confidence.
I tilt my face up to hold his gaze. “You’ll really let me choose?”
