Page 164 of Jensen

Still confused from sleep, I nod, pushing the covers back. “Yeah, let’s go make breakfast.”

He waits while I pull on a t-shirt, then he follows me down to the kitchen. My heart is damn near pumping out of my chest. I’ve never been shy, but suddenly, I’m feeling it, wondering if he’s going to take a good look at me and decide I’m not father material.

I pull out the chair. He scrambles into it. He’s in his pajamas, which still smell like smoke. Before we go to the courthouse, we’re going to have to buy both him and Della a new wardrobe.

“Do you know where my fox is?” he asks.

I freeze. “Your fox?”

“My toy I sleep with. It’s a stuffed fox,” he explains.

“So, uh, I think it might have gotten lost last night,” I say. “But I’ll take you and let you pick out whatever you want from the general store. They have toys.”

I can tell that only half satisfies him, but he nods. “Okay, that’s fine.”

Unsure of myself, I take the pan out and start making pancakes from a mix I keep in the freezer. Landis’ eyes follow me like tractor beams, soaking in my every move. Finally, I set his plate down in front of him and get to making coffee.

“You’re probably wondering where your dad is,” I say. “Your mom and you should talk later.”

He shakes his head. “My dad is always gone until bedtime.”

I falter, burning my hand on the percolator as I set it down. “He was never at home?”

He shakes his head, picking up his fork. “It was just me and Georgie, but she was going to quit and go away. That’s what Aunt Kayleigh said. Where’s Aunt Kayleigh?”

I clear my throat. “She…she had to leave for a bit.”

“Okay,” he says, face falling. “Did everyone have to go away?”

I pick up my coffee and sit opposite him. “I’m not going away, and neither is your mom. We’re staying.”

He starts sawing at the pancakes with the side of his fork. “Okay. That’s okay,” he says. “Can you cut this for me?”

I lean over, cutting the pancakes for him. It didn’t occur to me that kids can’t do much for themselves at age four. He watches until it’s done, then takes his fork back.

“Thanks,” he says. “My house set on fire last night.”

I sink down again, feeling like I’m in a game of dodgeball. “Yeah, that’s true.”

“I like this house,” he says.

“Thanks. I made it.”

His brows lift, attention piqued. “You made the whole house?”

He’s impressed. That’s a win for me. “Yeah, I did.”

“Can you make me a house?”

“Sure, a treehouse, if that’s what you want,” I say. “So long as your mom says it’s fine.”

“She probably will,” he says.

He eats some more, cleaning the plate with alarming quickness. I get him some water because the milk is expired, making a mental note to ask Della to come up with a list of food for him later. He accepts the cup, checking it over before taking a careful sip from the open top.

“I like juice,” he says.

“Sorry, little guy. We don’t have any.”