Page 47 of One Night with Number Nineteen

Ollie considers that for a moment. “Spaghetti.”

“I think spaghetti consumption is best done after sunrise. How about French toast?”

His brows drag together.

“It’s like a combination of cinnamon rolls and pancakes.”

His expression smooths out. “French toast!” he shouts, tossing his hands up.

“Shh, bud,” I say, pushing up to my feet. “Your mom may be sleeping.”

“She is,” he tells me matter-of-factly. “I check-ted on her before I came downstairs and found you.”

Something about his expression has me studying him a little more closely. “Are you sure you weren’t looking to snoop at the Christmas presents?” I ask lightly.

His guilty eyes have laughter bubbling up in my chest.

I ruffle his hair and lead the way to the kitchen. “Your mom worked hard to wrap those presents so maybe wait a couple more days before you turn full Present Monster Mode, yeah?”

“What’s that?”

“Present Monster Mode?” I ask as I start gathering ingredients.

“Yuppers,” he says making me chuckle (and definitely taking a page out of Smitty’s book).

“When you get all crazy like a monster and tear all the wrapping paper.” I growl at him, pretend that I’m ripping into the loaf of bread, and his giggles heal something inside me.

Hell, he’s adorable.

And wonderful.

And so bright and sweet, even though he’s been through a lot in his short years.

I ruffle his curls again and then we get down to the business of making breakfast.

“Can I crack the eggs?” he asks once I’ve got the griddle plugged in to warm up and the milk and spices set up.

“Sure,” I say, handing him one…

And then biting back a wince a few seconds later as he whacks it against the counter, causing a…well, an egg-splosion.

“Sorry,” he says, his eyes going wide at the mess.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, taking the remains of the egg from him and scooping the rest that’s littering the counter into the bowl. “Accidents happen.”

His face clears and his bottom lip—which had begun to wobble—steadies.

“Now,” I say, grabbing a fresh bowl. “We do it gently and a little at a time.” I hand him the egg and hold his hand so we can tap the shell against the flat part of the counter. Tap. Tap. “See?”

His brows furrow as he concentrates and nods.

Tap. Tap.

“Now you can feel that it’s cracked, right?”

“Yup.”

“So now we’ll carefully bring our fingers in and⁠—”