Page 129 of Lucky Laces
Damn, the man’s good.
I file away the parenting note, know that I’m working toward a future where there’s a strong possibility I’ll have stubborn, precocious daughters just like Chloe.
Or a certain stubborn, badass hockey coach.
“Great,” Rhodes says, “tell me when you’re there.”A pause.“She’s sleeping?Oh, good.Can you climb in next to her, make sure she doesn’t get cold?”More silence.Then, “You’re there?Great job, honey.I’ll be home in an hour.”
“You good?”I ask when he hangs up.
He’s pulled up a camera app on his phone, is scrolling through the screens and I see he’s tracking Chloe through the house and upstairs.Then down a hallway where she disappears through a door.
Rhodes exhales, but I notice that he leaves the feed open to the hallway, even though the forward doors are closed and the flight attendants are starting their checks.“I’m good.”
I don’t say a word—and neither do they.
Minutes later we’re in the air.
And not all that long later we’re back on the ground.
And, no surprise to anyone around us, when Rhodes is the first one off the plane.
“Meow!”
I blink, see that sunshine is pouring in through the windows and groan.
Even with the short flight, we were home late.
Late enough that I don’t want to think about dragging my ass out of bed—not for hours yet.
“Meow!”
Apparently more sleep isn’t going to happen.
Groaning softly, I slide out from beneath the covers and scoop up Lola.
“You’re a pain in the ass,” I murmur, both meaning it and not—mostly because Lola is cute as fuck and also currently butting her head against my jaw, purring like a madwoman now that I’ve picked her up and held her close.
Her purring doesn’t stop as I move from the room and head downstairs to make her breakfast.
Lucky for me that means opening the lid on a can of cat food and dumping it into a bowl.
“Meow,” she says by way of thanks then gets on with chowing down.
Since I’m awake, I take stock of the fridge.
I have a hankering for French toast, and considering it’s one of the few things my mom took it upon herself to teach me how to make, I’m good at it.
So, I start gathering ingredients—bread and cinnamon, milk and vanilla, eggs…
I freeze, my head halfway in the fridge, eyes searching the shelves.
Damn.
No eggs.
I guess I’m heading to the store.
I grab my keys, slip out the front door, making sure it’s latched and locked before heading to my car.
