I smile against Joel’s lips, and when we break apart, he’s smiling too.
“What is that boy up to?” I mutter. All he has out there for entertainment is a melting popsicle I should get off my backside to clean up and a plastic firefighter's helmet.
Joel kisses me again and steps back. “Let me go check. I’m enjoying pinning you against things and kissing you too much to stop now.” He walks to the window and peers out, chuckling. “That is cute as fuck.”
“What’s he doing?”
He motions for me to come over. “Come and see.”
Curious, I slide off the kitchen counter and walk toward him, straightening my hair.
Taking my hand, he moves me to stand in front of him with my back to his chest, his arms around my waist.
“He’s pretending to be a firefighter,” Joel says, resting his chin on the top of my head.
And sure enough, Ben is wearing his yellow plastic helmet, peering one way then the next, before dropping to the grass and crawling toward an imaginary person in need.
“I’m coming to save you!” he shouts as he crawls.
My smile is so wide, my cheeks actually hurt. “So. Damn. Adorable.”
I want to go grab my cell phone and record this, but some moments, you just have to live through and enjoy. This feels like one of them.
Joel buries a kiss on the top of my hair, then releases me to grin down at me. “How about you grab us a couple of popsicles? I’ll get some paper towels to clean up that mess out there, and we’ll see what other rescues he has planned?”
I grin at him. “That sounds perfect.”
So that’s what we do.
Joel cleans up Ben’s melted popsicle mess, and we sit on the top step of the porch, quietly watching Ben act out his dreams of being a firefighter as we lick our popsicles.
Chapter 17
Rose
After Ben’s exciting visit to the firehouse, I expected him to crawl over me at 6 a.m., wearing his plastic firefighter helmet and clutching a fistful of stickers.
Last night, I had to pry that helmet right off his head, telling him he absolutely could not wear it in the bath or to bed.
With Ben suspiciously quiet, I go looking for him, not expecting to find Murph holding Ben up to inspect a small hole in the wall in the spare bedroom. My eyes briefly scan the clutter in a room currently undergoing renovation—sealed paint tins, DIY tools, and dust sheets. The two windows are open, letting in the fresh morning air.
“Are you using my son as an extension pole, Murph Owens?” I ask, planting my hands on my hips as I stand in the doorway.
Murph and Ben snap their heads toward me. Their guilty expressions mirror each other so closely that I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Murph lowers Ben’s feet to the floor and straightens, clearing his throat and avoiding my mock-glare.
"Ben wanted to help." Murph stuffs his hands in his pockets, and after a quick glance, Ben does the same. "He was just checking the size of a hole so I can fill it and prep to startpainting. He won't be involved in painting or sanding, and we always keep any rooms with tools locked. I know the risks that come from working on a construction site and would never put Ben in danger."
I look between the man in blue denim, a red flannel shirt, and chunky boots, and my son in blue jeans and an almost matching flannel shirt. He’s wearing white sneakers, but if I’d packed his brown boots, there is no doubt in my mind that he’d be wearing them.
My brain cannot deal with how freakin’cutethey look standing side by side, wearing identical sheepish, caught with a hand in the cookie jar, expressions.
“I got you that shirt for Christmas,” I grumble, resigned to the fact that he’s wearing it now, so there’s no point making him change into something else I’ll only have to wash later. “It’s a nice shirt for special occasions, not DIY, Ben Hayes.”
He blinks up at me. “I wanted to match with Murph.”
I can’t find it in me to complaintoomuch because theydomatch and they look cute as hell. I’d put this down to hormones, but during my pregnancy with Ben, my hormones went into overdrive at the end of my second trimester.
