Page 100 of Bound Hearts

Douglas knits his brows together. “I thought we were having lunch.”

“Live a little, Douglas. We can start with pie and coffee.”

“Fine. But let your husband enjoy a cigar with his old man later to celebrate.”

Shaking my head, I’m going to go by the book. “Absolutely not. I hate the smell, and it will stick to Foster, and we have to think of your grandson.”

“Fair point, and we would be remiss if we didn’t listen to you. A good house is where the wife sets the tone.”

“I like you more every time I see you,” I comment as Foster dishes out pieces of pie.

Patrick’s near moan grabs all of our attention, and we can see that he ate a bite of the pie. “This is fucking good.”

“Yeah, let’s not use that word around my son,” Foster points out.

Patrick forks another bite. “This is like mom’s.”

“Is it?” I’m surprised.

He nods his head. “Yeah.”

Foster chuckles under his breath. “Of course it is. We’ve been trying every pie across the city, and it was in Everhope the whole time.” He glances at me with love swimming in his eyes. “I seem to find everything I need there.”

“Seems so,” I whisper.

30

FOSTER

“He won’t stop crying,” Sutton says, looking at me where I stand in the nursery doorway. She’s exhausted, her eyes tired as she bounces our son. She’s overwhelmed. I’m overwhelmed. Hell, Levi is probably overwhelmed with us too.

He is now five months old, and many nights have found us in the same scenario: crying and not sleeping.

It’s a rite of passage, I guess. Everyone with a newborn experiences it. Except for us, he doesn’t seem to have an off switch. Three hours of sleep is the average for all of us. It started about two weeks after he was born. It was as though our honeymoon period came to an abrupt end. The doctors have repeatedly told us that he’s healthy, and some babies are criers more than others.

I’m going to have some words with my son when he’s older.

I retrieve my hands from my gray sweatpants pockets and take a few steps into the room, my arms outstretched, indicating for Sutton to hand him over. “Go.”

“B-But—” she stammers.

“It’s 2:30 in the morning. You’ve been up long enough, and I’ll take over.”

She reluctantly hands him to me, more from a mother’s worry than anything, nerves making her cling to him.

“Sutton, tomorrow is your first day back in the office. I think you need your rest more than I do.”

Truthfully, I doubt either of them is ready. I suggested hiring a nanny, but she insisted daycare at the office was better so he’d be close in case of emergencies. Elodie only praised the daycare when Lola was a baby. With generous leave from Haven Crossroads and Levi arriving early, we needed more time too.

“Maybe I shouldn’t go,” she says.

“You don’t need to.” I’ve pointed out that money isn’t the issue, but I already know the direction of where this conversation will go. It’s been discussed several times a day.

She shakes her head gently. “But I have my career. I can’t lose more time away from the office.”

“Okay. It’s probably good for you to be with adults all day.” At this point, my answers are on repeat.

“Right, and he’ll be with other kids. It’s the best daycare, we’re in the building, and I can check in,” she lists, reassuring herself.