Page 44 of The Overtime Kiss

For a second, he’s quiet. “Maybe,” he says, a little less sharp this time before turning to look out the window.

Maybe, too, I’ll hold off on trying to win him over today. Winning him over might take more than gummy bears and hope—but I’m not giving up.

But if I can’t win Parker over right away, at least I can help more around the home. Sure, Tyler said he’d cook, but there’s no reason I can’t pitch in with prep. I’m here to make his life easier, after all.

As the kids do homework—Luna upstairs and Parker inthe open living room—I chop up tomatoes, cilantro, cheese, and lettuce, setting each in small white bowls I find in the cupboard. I grab some rice and beans, putting them on the counter as well, next to an avocado. He’ll want to cut that last so it doesn’t brown too soon. I remove the chicken breasts from the packaging, even though I don’t like touching meat. But it’s my job, so it’s fine. I can handle it for Tyler and Parker. Luna doesn’t eat meat, so I make sure there are enough beans for her. I slice the chicken into chunks for Tyler to cook, put them in a glass dish, close it, and set it in the fridge.

I glance around the bright, sleek kitchen, with its white counters and polished surfaces. All the groceries are put away, the counters are wiped down, and dinner is prepped. Not bad. Not bad at all. Hopefully, Tyler will be happy.

Right on time, the garage door vibrates lightly. Parker perks up, sitting straight on the couch, his ears practically pricked like a dog’s. “Dad’s home,” he says to no one in particular, which somehow makes it sweeter. Then he bolts up.

And my heart—it swells.

A minute later, he launches himself at Tyler, who comes around the corner dressed in workout shorts and a T-shirt. Tyler scoops up Parker easily. “What’s up, little buddy?”

“I’m not little,” Parker says, but it’s full of affection, not any of the attitude he gave me. Good. It’s nice to see someone have a good relationship with their father. And I can handle attitude, no problem.

Once Tyler sets his son down, he turns to me in the kitchen and blinks in surprise as I wipe my hands on a towel. He peers at the array of food, then back at me. “You…didn’t have to cook.”

But he doesn’t actually sound mad. He sounds delighted.

“I didn’t,” I say, feeling a little buzzy from his reaction. “I only prepped things to make it easier for your ‘build-a-taco night.’”

Parker snaps his gaze to me. “Build a taco?”

I meet the eight-year-old’s eyes, playing my ace. “Yes. I figured you can set everything out and pick your own ingredients for it.”

“Isn’t that just…taco night?”

“Ah, but is it? You can build the whole thing from scratch—from the rice to the beans to the chicken to the guacamole. Sort of like when you build Lego,” I say, feeling a little proud of myself for the comparison.

“Okay, but we already do that,” he says, thoroughly unimpressed.

But after years of performing skating routines that rise and crest, I know a thing or two about how to make a point. “Right.Of courseyou assemble your own tacos. But if your dad says yes, maybe if you build something cool out of the taco—like a car, or a house, or a shooting star—you might be able to convince your dad to give you something sweet.”

“I want to build my own taco,” Parker says to his dad, and yes! Parker’s enthusiasm is small, but it feels like one thing going right with him. Score one for the nanny.

“When you finish your homework. And after I cook the beans and meat,” Tyler says, then sends Parker to tackle his books.

Parker runs off as Tyler strides into the kitchen, a quirk in his brow. “Build-a-taco night?”

“I figured a name like that might make it seem more fun,” I say, but I don’t tell him why I want more fun for Parker. I don’t want to worry him about his son not liking me.

Tyler’s astute, though, because he says, “Let me guess. He was standoffish?”

And he knows his son well. Giving in, I hold up my thumb and forefinger to show a sliver of space. “Yes, but it was the first day. It’s all good. However, I have a very important question—can Parker have gummy bears?” My stomachspins with nerves, chased by the raw awareness that I was too caught up in word play with Tyler earlier to nail down the details of what to buy and not buy. Not sure I want to admit that? But then I can hear Elena’s voice in my head.It’s okay to admit you need a little help. “I wasn’t sure actually after our conversation earlier if you were good with that or not. Or how you feel about candy and such. I mean, I know you think chocolate chip cookies are scandalous,” I tease, reminding him of our wedding night conversation—the one that took place before my 1001 Confessions.

“I’m not a big candy person. Sweets aren’tmyguilty pleasure,” he says, and instantly I want to know what his pleasures are—guilty or otherwise. “But I try not to be a hard-ass either. So every now and then can’t hurt.”

“I agree,” I say, relieved that I made the choice to buy them. “And now you have dessert for them tonight.”

“They’ll love you for sure then,” he says, and I hope so. Truly, I do. But I know, too, it’ll take time.

I glance around the neat, clean kitchen before looking toward the stairs. Luna seems happily ensconced in her room. It was only one afternoon. Only a few hours. But here we are, and everyone is safe and sound. I should play it cool, but I’ve never been the cool one. “We made it,” I add, letting out an exaggerated, “whew.”

Tyler’s businesslike demeanor slips away, and a smile takes over. “So I guess you’re not quitting?”

My jaw drops. “What? No! Were you worried?”

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