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“I heard Grey call you 'Mads' the other day.”
“Not really better, is it?” she said, pursing her little lips.
I studied her for a moment and popped another cookie in my mouth.
I took my time chewing it over—the name and the cookie—before suggesting, “What about Tillie? Way more rock and roll.”
She was silent, eyes on the loading screen as she savored a bite.
I might not know her that well yet, but the last few months had blessed me with enough time around these incredible kids to recognize when her brain was working overtime.
Finally, she smiled, a bit bewildered, and said, “I kinda like it.”
“We could just try it out for a few days? See what you think?”
“‘Kay. But just us?”
There was so much hope—so much trust—in those three words that my chest swelled.
“Our secret,” I promised, zipping my lips shut.
“Just until I’m sure I like it.”
“You got it...Tillie,” I said, grinning when she beamed.
I kicked my bare feet up on the coffee table, and at precisely that moment, four-year-old Beau came running over, mad as a hornet, holding out two Lego pieces he couldn’t jam together.
I chuckled, reaching out to show him how to connect them.
* * *
The familiar pangsof impending female devastation worked their way up my spine and around my hips throughout the day. By the time Ollie texted to let me know he was heading home, I was already bracing for a shitty couple of days. No time left to gloat about his pillaged retribution cookies.
It was for that reason alone that when my sister, Alice, showed up to take the kids across the street to her and Greyson’s to swim, I chomped at her offer.
On a scale of pantyliner to crime scene, my periods—when they actually decided to show up—landed firmly in the massacre-of-the-Jedi camp. Except instead of a Sith wreaking havoc, it was my uterus on the warpath.
The sporadic demonic ritual sacrifice was topped off by excruciating cramps—when I was super lucky, migraine headaches—and an ongoing sense of seasickness. It was four or five days of feeling like I’d been drop-kicked off a balcony onto my skull, beaten, and then locked in the wheelhouse in the middle of a tempest.
By the time Preston, one of the Hart’s assistants, dropped me off at home, my farewell smile was more of a grimace. It was getting hard to breathe because the cramps were so intense.
Gathering my sweatpants, I scurried into the bathroom to clean up and prepare for an imminent battle with my defective baby box.
Only once my raspberry leaf tea was brewed, my gallon of water was set on the table, the Ibuprofen located, my ice cream dished, andGilmore Girlsqueued on the television, did I finally collapse onto my leather couch, wrap my body in hot pads like a human burrito, and tuck a fuzzy black blanket up to my shoulders.
The familiar theme song had me blowing out a breath as I scooped a tiny gold heart spoon into my chocolate-walnut-fudge dessert.
Everything tastes better on tiny spoons. Don’t ask me why—it’s just a fact.
Two episodes and an entire quart of chocolate later, I jackknifed upright when the front door banged open, hitting pause on my television.
Technically, this place belonged to Alice, and she still had her key despite moving into Greyson’s ridiculous beach estate. I couldn’t complain. Her titan of a suit daddy had paid it off and laughed himself stupid when I demanded to pay rent.
But it wasn’t my sister barging into my space.
Oliver stood there, looking like he’d run his hands through his dark, luscious curls one too many times today. His navy suit was open, a gold tie hanging limply around his neck as he scowled at my pile of shoes before kicking his off to add them to the small mountain.
“There are racks for those,” he grunted.