Page 162 of One Night with Number Nineteen

I giggle.

His gaze drifts down to the book in my hand. “Is that what I think it is?”

I just nod, ask softly, “Want to be my first ARC reader?”

His whole face lights up. “Really?”

“Really, really.”

Soft blue eyes as he wipes his hands on a towel. “I’ll finish up with the banana bread⁠—”

“No,” I say softly. “You’ll read.” Brushing my lips over his, I steal the towel and shove the book in his hands. “Find a cozy place and get lost in the world of The Book That Shall Not Be Written.”

“I love you,” he murmurs.

“Back at ya, Cupcake.” I peck him on the lips then nudge him from the room. I turn to Ollie. “Should we get the banana bread in the oven?”

“Banana bread!” he hollers again, though thankfully this time without the side of batter splatter.

Heh.

Grinning, I ruffle his hair and then we work together to get the batter in the pan and the pan in the oven.

“Don’t forget to set the timer,” he commands as I shut the door.

“On it, goofy goober.”

“I’m gonna go play trucks,” he says once I’ve programmed in the time.

“Sounds like a plan.”

He clambers down from the chair he was standing on and runs toward the hall. Then skids to a halt and looks back at me. “When are we going to give Sawyer his present?”

I kind of miss the days of Saw-yur.

But my kiddo is growing up, getting big and saying his yers.

“In a little while,” I say. “So he can have time to read.”

A brusque nod. “Got it, Mom.”

And I’m grinning again as he races off. But I do that a lot nowadays. Smile. Real ones. Not white-knuckling one in order to pretend I’m fine, that my life is great and Ollie has a happy mom.

My life is great.

And I am happy.

It’s because of Sawyer. But it’s also Ollie and Faye, Gray and Ryan and the rest of the guys. It’s Veronica and Harper and Kailey and Luna. It’s the kids running around together and the team barbecues and all. The. Freaking. Hockey.

I’m well-versed in it now, know all about the rules of icing and offsides. I can even tell someone the difference between slashing and cross-checking and charging.

(I know because Smitty tested me on it all just the other day.)

I slip back into my office and plod through some emails, only pausing to pull out the banana bread and check in on Ollie.

We play trains and prep dinner. And it’s just as I’m setting Sawyer’s present on the counter that the man himself makes an appearance.

“Something smells good,” he says, coming in and brushing his mouth over mine.