Page 34 of Everywhere You Look

“¡Sí! Y esta es…”

“¡La leche!”

“¡Sí! mis pollitas son las más inteligentes.”

I smile to myself as I listen to the back-and-forth between Dean, Lemmie and Mellie. He’s been teaching them a bit of Spanish, and it’s the most adorable thing. I love hearing how proud they are of themselves when he points to things around us and they name the objects correctly.

“Well, it’s like the United Nations here!” I say as I round the corner and head to the kitchen island, where I know the tamper on the espresso machine is packed with fresh ground beans and ready for me to hit brew for my morning Americano. My favorite mug is already settled underneath the spout. There are two slices of whole wheat bread sitting in Gigi’s yellow toaster, ready to be crisped into toast with the push of a button. A plate with three sliced strawberries and a butter knife sits next to the toaster, along with a jar of sugar free peanut butter.

The whole thing is set up exactly to my likingevery day. I come downstairs to find my breakfast prepped and ready to be warmed as soon as I’m ready for it.

And suddenly, I feel really stupid. I’ve spent the last week being annoyed every morning that my not-quite-fake-but-not-really-realhusband isn’t in my bed when I wake up, but it’s only because he’s down here. Taking care of me and my kids. Feeding us, getting us ready, setting our days up for success. And instead of thanking him, I’ve been sulking.

I’m such an idiot. Dean didn’t marry me to be my bed-buddy. He married me to help me secure custody of my kids. He married me to help me parent. He married me because he’s my friend.

I need to do a better job of remembering that.

My cheeks flush with embarrassment, and I turn my face down while I fiddle with the espresso machine so Dean can’t see the red creeping across my skin. Unnecessary, probably, since he’s fully focused on helping Ollie spear a piece of banana pancake on her purple baby fork, even as he talks to me.

“I think we’d better get Mensa on the horn. Lemmie and Mellie are brilliant. And Ollie, too! Oh babe, you should’ve seen it. I said “las frutillas” and Ollie picked a strawberry right up off of her tray. It was incredible!”

I chuckle, pressing the button on the toaster andwatching the heating elements inside slowly light up into a reddish-orange glow.

“Was it incredible, or were there just strawberries in Miss Grabby Hands’ general vicinity?” I ask with a laugh. Of course I want to believe that all my kids are geniuses, but Ollie is still working on her fine motor skills, and that means grabbing anything she can get her adorable, chubby little hands on.

“If I recall, it took you six months to master “¿Nos echamos un polvo?” before our week in Buenos Aires a few years back,” he teases, and I scoff.

“It’s a hard language to learn! And excuse me for not being a child whose brain is still a sponge made to absorb vast amounts of knowledge on a second-by-second basis.” My toast pops, and I drop the slices onto the plate and immediately smother each slice in peanut butter so that it gets nice and melty, exactly how I like it. Just as I’m strategically placing the strawberry slices across the toast so that I get a perfect amount of fruit, peanut butter, and bread in each bite, I feel Dean step up behind me. He moves in close until his chest is just barely brushing my back and places his hands on the counter on either side of me.

“You’re right. It’s difficult to learn a new language as an adult. But I can’t say I was too upset that you didn’t end up hooking up with any hottiesin Argentina,” Dean says in a low voice, leaning in until his lips are right by ear. “Good morning, husband.”

He punctuates the murmured greeting with a soft, slow kiss to my cheek that lingers just long enough for goosebumps to form on my arms.

He’s gone as quickly as he arrived, which is a good thing since I was about half a second away from leaning back against his chest just to feel his body pressed against mine.

Swallowing down the wave of lusty yearning that has been threatening constantly to pull me under, I take my plate of toast, grab my Americano from under the drip of the espresso machine and join the girls at the table.

“I talked to Adriana this morning. We’re all set for the photoshoot and interview,” Dean says I bring a slice of toast to my mouth. Adriana is his agent and a total shark. She, along with our respective PR teams, has been managing the expectations of the media about mine and Dean’s marriage. Since we decided we wanted to do a one-and-done explanation, they’ve been shopping our story around to the highest bidder.

I’m about to ask which lucky publication won out when Lem and Mel share a conspiratorial look and start bouncing in their seats.

“Uncle Lukey, guess what?” Mellie asks around a mouthful of Cheerios.

“Finish chewing and then you can tell me,” I say with a playful wink, even though I don’t feel very playful or chill watching her. I could care less about the kids chewing with their mouths open—they’re little kids, for fuck’s sake, there’s plenty of time for lessons in manners—but I’m terrified of them choking. I started reading some Mommy Blogs shortly after Gigi’s funeral and they have scarred me for life. Who knew there were so many ways for little people to potentially kill themselves?

“Dean said we get to have a sleepover tonight!” Lemmie pipes in, unwilling to wait for her sister to finish her cereal before getting to the news. I see Mellie scowl and in anticipation of the inevitable crash out over her sister stealing her thunder, I reach across the table to offer up double high-fives to distract them before the fighting can begin.

“That’s so cool! But what does it mean? I thought every night was a sleepover?” I ask. Ollie squeals in delight, mashing her fists into her breakfast.

“A sleepover with Cami!” the girls say in unison, and I turn to Dean for confirmation.

“Keeks texted this morning. She’s in the phase where she’s giving Cami everything she asks for before the new baby comes, and Cami asked for asleepover with her best pals. All of Kira’s girlfriends are bringing their kids over, too. She even offered to take Ollie for the night.”

“Slumber party at the McKenna-Yates house. Sounds like a fun time for Warren,” I smirk, and Dean chuckles.

“Yeah, Kira is really trying to hammer the baby fever out of my poor brother-in-law. Between our girls and Kira’s friends, there will be eight kids all under the age of eight hanging out next door tonight. If that doesn’t do it, I don’t know what will.”

Something pulls taut in my chest when I hear Dean refer to the girls as “ours”. It’s not the first time he’s done it. I don’t even know if he realizes what he’s saying, but that gentle claiming melts me every damn time, anyway.

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