Page 225 of Wicked Proposal

It’s good, in a way, that I’m the one making breakfast. The first few days, Eli wouldn’t eat a single thing that came out of Louis’s kitchen. I tried explaining it to the chef and Brad that he’s particular about textures, that his foods need to be separated so the flavors won’t mix, but he wouldn’t listen.

You’re spoiling him. Look, he’s turned into a mumbling idiot because of you.

I grip my pan tighter. One day, I’ll make him eat those words with a side of maple syrup.

But not today.

I start with the pancakes. They’re delicate work—getting them just the way EliandBrad like them. Eli loves a little burning on the edges, but Brad won’t eat anything that’s not basically raw. For him, his food must be as white as his clothes.

I make Brad’s batch first, then Eli’s.

“Hmm. What’s that smell?”

It’s Brad, coming up behind me. His arms try to wrap around my middle, but I slip away, busying myself with the food as an excuse.

“Pancakes,” I answer, trying to sound light and happy, the way he wants me to be.

He isn’t fooled. “Fuck, you’re such a cold fish. You should be more grateful—I let you keep your own room to give you time. But now, I’m wondering if I shouldn’t be taking that privilege away.”

Shit.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, forcing myself to peck him on the cheek. Just once. Just to sell it. “But I’d just bother you if we shared. You wouldn’t want me to wake you up at the crack of dawn, would you?”

He tries to twist his head to capture my lips, but I’m already gone. Sleep, I’ve learned, still makes Brad as sluggish as it used to.

“Damn right,” he exhales. “I’m not like you. I need my sleep to function at work.”

Right. Busy job you’ve got there, sitting at your desk looking important all day.

I bite my tongue and force another smile. “Speaking of work?—”

“Don’t even try it,” he interrupts, stealing a pancake off Eli’s plate and pulling a face because,surprise,it’s not to his taste. “We’ve already gone over this. Being a mom is a full-time job. You’ll be handing in your resignation tomorrow, once your suspension’s over. God, you suck at cooking, don’t you?”

Think. Quick, think.

“I have some PTO left over,” I say. “Be a shame to waste it. Maybe I could take it and then resign?”

He fixes me with a thoughtful stare, as if gauging whether I’m trying to fuck him over. Which I very much am.

“Sure. It’d be dumb not to. Looks like it’s not all cobwebs and makeup in that pretty little head, huh?” he says at last.

“Morning.”

We both turn towards the voice in the doorway. “Morning,what?” Brad asks with a saw-toothed grin.

Eli cringes. “Morning… Dad.”

Brad nods in approval. “Better. How’s that new pillow working out, sport?”

“It’s too soft,” Eli mumbles. “My neck’s all stiff.”

Brad’s smile tightens. “It’s a thousand dollar pillow. Get fucking used to it, Jesus.”

Eli’s brow knits. I can tell he wants to argue, which is not a good idea right now. Brad’s never more volatile than when he’s had a drink or when he’s just woken up. “But?—”

“No ‘buts,’ munchkin,” I chime in. “Now c’mon, time for breakfast.”

Eli doesn’t reply to me. He barely even looks at me. Just climbs into the designer stool that’s clearly too tall for him and starts pushing food around on his plate, lips sealed like the tomb.