Page 32 of Takeover

“I’m coming, kiddo!” I yell back. “And you,” I say, turning back to Ethan. “Go shower.” Just like he did to me earlier, I slap his ass, but before I can do it again, he grabs my wrist.

“No one has ever needed a spanking more than you. I bet all the men you were with before couldn’t get the job done,” he says, leaning down close enough to my ear to give me goosebumps.

I look him in the eye, meeting his challenge. “I guess I’venevermet a man who was up to the challenge. Such a man doesn’t exist.”

My hand itches to connect with his cheek when I see the cocky grin spread across his face. He doesn’t speak, but he gets close to me, invading my space. I don’t give him the satisfaction of backing away.

His lips curl into a smirk before he turns on his heels and walks away.

20

I was unbalanced the second I stepped inside my bedroom and saw her clothes strewn across my bed. I knew instantly she did it on purpose. To mess with her, I folded her clothes and threw them in one of my drawers, mixing her clothes with mine.

By the time I’m showered, changed, and walk back downstairs, I return to something I’ve never seen before in this house. When I turn the corner to the kitchen, Vincent is sitting on the counter while Tara instructs him on the secrets to making the world’s best scrambled eggs.

“The secret is butter, kiddo. And I like some onions in my eggs, but since you don’t like onions, they are out!”

“Gross,” Vincent says.

“Double gross. I don’t know what I was thinking.” When she turns to the skillet in front of her, my son swipes a piece of bacon that was already set aside. When Tara turns and notices the bacon in his hands, they both start to giggle. Vincent puts the bacon to her lips, and she takes a bite. The smile never leaves her face.

I make my presence known by getting the dishes and setting the table, something I’ve never done before. By the time I finish, she has Vincent putting the food on the table.

“Was I upstairs that long?” I ask when I see bacon, pancakes, and eggs.

“You were. Though I don’t understand why. Nothing you do will help that face.” She makes a face full of disgust and pinches one of my cheeks. She takes the seat to my right and whispers so that only I can hear, “Or that smell.”

“Tara cooks fast, Daddy,” Vincent says, as he reaches for the pancakes.

“Tara is most definitely fast, son,” I say, catching Tara’s eye. She arches an eyebrow and narrows her eyes at me.

“I might be fast, but your daddy is most definitely quick.” She smiles in victory, and to my shock, she reaches across the table and cuts Vincent’s pancakes. She even goes so far as to put a piece in his mouth.

I don’t remember the last time a person who was not employed by me showed Vincent that much attention and care. My mother died shortly after he was born, and my sister has been living abroad since he was one. His mother left a few months after his first birthday, but even when we were married and shared the same house, she let the nannies take care of him.

Lindsay required twenty-four-hour nannies and would only spend time with him when he was clean and fed. The minute he would need attention or the care of a parent, she would pass him off. She became livid when I told the nanny service I would not require their help on the weekends.

Maybe that was the beginning of the end for us. I assumed forcing her to take care of him would bring out some dormant motherly instinct, but that only pushed her into a corner.

“I wasn’t meant to do this,” she said to me one Saturday afternoon. Vincent had a cold and was miserable the entire day. I found Lindsay in our bedroom after finally getting him down for a nap. She was sitting on the bed, sobbing into her hands. When she finally looked up at me, she had mascara streaking down her cheeks. Her blue eyes looked hollow. Dead inside. The woman I married was no longer there.

“The first year is always hard, Lindsay.” I remember sitting next to her and putting a hand on her shoulder. It was the first time since we met that she shrugged away from my touch.

“Don’t touch me, Ethan!” she had yelled. “I told you I didn’t want this.” She ran out of the room and slammed the door, locking herself in one of the guest bedrooms for the next few hours.

I remember sitting down in the middle of the hallway and putting my head in my hands. I had just lost my mother, my sister had moved overseas, my father had just gone into hospice after suffering a debilitating stroke, and my wife was falling apart after giving birth to our son. I had never felt so overwhelmed before, and even though I didn’t admit it to myself, I knew that was the beginning of the end of our marriage.

“Maybe you can teach my daddy how to make eggs like this.” I’m snapped out of my memory by my son, whose mouth is now filled with eggs, a food he hated before today.

“I don’t know, kiddo,” Tara says. “Your dad is probably the type of guy who thinks he already knows everything.”

“He doesn’t know how to do the laundry. And he only knows how to make yucky eggs,” Vincent says. “One time he forgot Aunt Liz’s birthday and she yelled at him.”

“Okay, let’s not tell all my flaws.” I mess his hair, but my son ignores me and talks the entire meal.

Tara pays close attention and asks questions, which only makes him talk more, mostly about me and every mistake I’ve ever made as a parent.

“You know what my favorite place in the city is?” she asks once we all finished eating. I get up and bring the dirty dishes to the sink.

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