Page 110 of Hot Stuff
When Micky nods, Walker holds out his arms and the weight on my hip shifts as Micky leans toward him.
With reluctance and pleasure I release my hold and follow them to the counter where Walker has everything set up ready to go.
“Need my help?” I ask.
“No. Why don’t you jump in a quick shower while us men get breakfast ready?”
I see the concern in his eyes, know he’s not as sure about being left alone with Micky as his words imply. “I’ll only be a minute.”
Walker nods and sits Micky on the counter. Picking up the pancake mix he asks, “You want to tip this in the bowl for me?”
The grin on Micky’s face has my heart aching. I want to be sure he smiles like that all the time. I know I can’t. Life dictates we can’t smile all the time and if anyone has learned that, it’s this little boy.
He’s lost his mother, now his father, and he’s only three.
My breath stalls.
Micky is the same age I was when Pa and Grams took me to live with them.
Glancing at Walker, I see his eyes darting between me and Micky. He places a hand on the little guy then turns to face me. With one eyebrow raised, he mouths, “You okay?”, and I can’t stop the smile forming.
With a quick nod, I bounce up on my toes and kiss his cheek. “Be back in a minute.”
My shower is super quick, and I’m dressed even quicker. I’ve spent the last week wanting to be with Walker every second, and now with Micky in the picture, that desire is deeper, stronger.
I can’t explain the connection except maybe the similarities between me and the little boy are what’s binding us.
I hope today is simple, that we’ll get to pack up and take Micky home tonight. I want him to meet Pa and I want to show him where he’s going to live.
God. I know I’m getting ahead of myself. I know this isn’t a done deal in spite of Walker’s cousin naming him guardian. There’s so much we don’t know about the situation but that all takes a backseat to making sure Micky is safe.
With us.
When I make it back to the kitchen it’s to the sound of little boy laughter and the deep rumble of Walker’s masculine one.
Stopping on the threshold, I watch the two of them. Walker is making funny faces and Micky is laughing so hard if it wasn’t for Walker’s hand on his belly, he’d fall off the counter.
“What are you two doing?” I ask with a smile.
“Poop!” Micky shouts. “He made poop!”
“Ah.” I look at Walker with an eyebrow arched.
“Pancake poop.” His words do nothing to clarify what’s so funny. “I was trying to make a pancake in the shape of a hockey puck, and let me say I think I got it, but this guy here says it’s a poop.”
“Oh, let me see.” I move closer and when the pan comes into view, I struggle to hide my smile. “Well…”
Walker hooks his arm around my neck. “Don’t say it.”
I’m giggling now.
“Don’t laugh either or I’ll have to tickle you like I tickled this one.” He wraps an arm around Micky and pulls him off the counter onto his hip. “Let’s get the table set so I can make more hockey pucks.”
Twisting out from under his arm, I put both hands on his back and say, “Why don’t you two get the table sorted and I’ll finish the pancakes.”
Both my boys, and yes, they’re my boys now—I refuse to think of them any other way—look at me with skepticism.
“Go, go. I’ve got this.” I shoo them out of the kitchen. “And when you’ve got the table set, wash your hands,” I call after them.
