Page 61 of One Pucking Secret
I still have the task of telling my parents, which I plan to do first thing tomorrow. I’m sure they’ll be upset that I lied, but thrilled that I actually do know who Jasper’s father is. Butthere will be questions, many of which I’m not sure I have the answers to yet.
The scent of lavender soap fills the room as I kneel beside the tub, scooping warm water to help him rinse off his soapy arms. Bubbles cling to his skin, iridescent in the soft bathroom lighting.
“Can we read tonight?” Jasper asks, pulling me from my reverie.
“Of course, bud,” I assure him, reaching for the fluffy towel on the rack. “We’ll read twice as long.”
I wrap him up, his damp hair dark against the bright yellow towel. As I hold him close, the weight of his trust grounds me. Whatever decisions lie ahead, they’ll be for Jasper—his smiles, his rubber ducks. For now, that’s enough to keep the worries at bay, letting them dissolve like the bubbles fading behind us.
I dry him off and wait while he puts on his pajamas, a powder blue pair with clouds all over them. “Go ahead and brush your teeth. Just like I taught you.”
Jasper holds up his toothbrush, struggling to squeeze the minty paste onto it, the tube wobbling in his grip. “Like this?” he asks, his hands clumsy but eager to get it right.
“Almost, Jasp.” My hand guides his, gently squeezing the tube until a pea-sized amount rests on the bristles. I swipe away the excess, grinning down at him. “Just like that, bud.”
We mirror each other, brushing in tandem. My reflection—edges softened by steam and weariness—stares back. There’s fatigue in the droop of my eyelids, but the set of my jaw speaks of a resolve steeled through trials. Jasper hums contentedly, oblivious to the weight in my gaze.
“Good job, kiddo.” My hand lands gently on his back, a silent vow to shield him from the world’s harshness. “Let’s go pick out a book.”
“Is Wyatt going to read with us?”
“No, honey. Wyatt has some work calls to make.” Mostly, he’s spent the past hour on the phone with Mark. They’re still trying to figure out who’s behind the leaked photo. There’s a chance Sonia had someone tailing us.
Jasper’s feet pad ahead of me, leading us into the guest room where a makeshift library awaits.The Little Engine That Could, one of his current favorites, is waiting on the bed. I lie down next to him under the quilt Wyatt threw over the bed. I let the words flow, articulating each syllable with care, hoping their message of resilience seeps into Jasper’s dreams.
“… I think I can, I think I can…” I whisper along with the little engine, feeling the weight of our own uphill battle.
Jasper’s eyelids flutter, his trust in this simple bedtime ritual anchoring us amid swirling uncertainties. How will we climb our own steep hills? With every word, I weave belief into the fabric of his consciousness, because if he believes he can, then maybe, just maybe, we’ll make it over the peak.
The final word of the story lingers—a hopeful echo. I close the book, glancing down at Jasper’s serene face. His chest rises and falls with a rhythm that sings of innocence and trust. I press a gentle kiss to his forehead; my lips linger, savoring the moment of quiet. “Goodnight, my little engine,” I murmur, the words barely a whisper.
I rise and stretch, struggling to pull my eyes away from my sleeping boy. The hallway is dark except for a sliver of light leading me toward Wyatt’s room. My fingers push the door wider, revealing an oasis carved from the night.
“Wow,” slips from me as I enter. Candles flicker, their flames dancing a waltz of shadows across Wyatt’s strong features. “I thought you were on the phone.”
“I just finished. Figured I would do something for you while you got Jasper to sleep.”
“Wyatt, you didn’t have to,” I say.
Wyatt’s arms wrap around me, pulling me close. The warmth of his body envelops me, and for a moment, the world fades. I breathe in his familiar scent—something earthy and woodsy, tinged with the faintest hint of cologne. It’s grounding, reminding me that despite the chaos swirling around us, we’re here together.
“It meant the world to me that you and Jasper came to the game tonight,” he murmurs into my hair. “Thank you.” His voice is low, almost a whisper, and it sends a shiver down my spine. Gratitude pours from him like an open tap.
I pull back slightly to look into his eyes, searching for something—understanding, reassurance, maybe even a glimpse of the man I used to know. “I wanted to be there for him… for you.” My voice trembles just a little as I admit it. It’s true. Seeing him on that ice, surrounded by all those people who adore him, reminded me of how incredible he is beneath the headlines.
He chuckles softly, but there’s an edge to it. “Even with the paparazzi hunting us down?” His brows furrow slightly at the memory of thatwild scene post-game when flashes erupted around us like fireworks on New Year’s Eve.
“Even then. Plus, we’ll be old news soon enough, and they’ll move on to someone else,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. “But Jasper had fun today. That’s what matters.”
His expression softens again as he considers my words. “You’re giving us a chance, Chloe.” The sincerity in his tone makes my heart flutter and ache at the same time.
“Maybe I am,” I say slowly. It feels monumental—both exciting and terrifying all at once. We stand there in this dimly lit room, caught between what was and what could be.
As Wyatt leans closer, I notice how his jaw tightens momentarily before he relaxes again. “I appreciate it more than you know.” He pulls me in again. This time his grip feels firmer, as if anchoring both of us to this moment.
In that embrace, uncertainty mingles with hope. The closeness stirs something deep within me—a desire to trust again, but tempered by caution after everything we’ve been through together.
“I want to make things right,” he adds softly, sincerity etched in his gaze as he pulls back just enough to look into my eyes again. Each wordwraps around me like a promise—or maybe just another weight on my shoulders.
