Page 186 of The Right Wrong Promise

“Then the only thing we need to worry about now is breakfast.” Laughing, I rest my thumbs on his cheekbones, stroking his face until he relaxes.

20

GLASS HOUSES (KANE)

The kids don’t know how close we came to losing the woman they’re wild about.

By the time we made it downstairs and found Dan waiting impatiently at the table, all evidence of Margot trying to leave was gone.

I’m glad we moved those damn suitcases in time.

Yes, I could’ve explained it, and they’re good kids. They might have understood.

They know our time hasn’t gotten any easier between the break-in and the town gossip mill, so if she went home for safety and sanity, they’d get it.

But that wouldn’t have been the whole story.

And I’m glad as hell I don’t have to lie through my teeth.

I make breakfast while Margot chats with Dan about the War of 1812 and the drummer boy figurine he’s still obsessed with.

A few minutes later, Sophie comes down, having finished her fantasy book, and she takes her usual spot next to Dan.

We eat as one family again.

One big, cozy, loaded word I can’t believe I’m enjoying.

It’s been too long.

Even when I was married, we didn’t eat together often with our schedules. Even when we had the time, Daria would usually skip out with a smoothie on her way to the gym and then a photo shoot.

For her, spending little moments with the kids was just a chore of married life. Like everybody else in her circle, we were accessories, and we could wait while she came and went.

Sure, she loves them, in her own weird way.

The trouble is she’ll never love anyone more than herself.

That’s the bitter truth, a hard damn horse pill to swallow.

The kids are old enough to accept it now. I’m sure they’ll have sharper, more bitter questions for her when they’re older, and when that day comes, I won’t be part of my ex-wife’s regrets.

I want them knowing they had one parent who always put them first and last.

But Margot, she’s fallen into our life too easily, laughing and joking with them so effortlessly. Sometimes I just stop and stare like a deer in the headlights.

Dangerously good.

Comparing my ex to this temporary fling can’t be healthy.

She might’ve agreed to stay for now—just like I agreed to stop freaking out—but there’s still an end date coming we haven’t discussed.

In under a week, we’ll go our separate ways.

Maybe we’ll talk about seeing each other again.

That’s a big fuckingmaybewith razor-sharp teeth.

But we both want to figure out if this thing is worth fighting for, don’t we?