*EXCERPT*
I freeze. I can tell we’re both thinking about that night in his hotel room. I give into the urge to stare at him: broad chest and sturdy shoulders, the faint beginnings of laugh lines around his eyes. He’s got a tiny birthmark on his clavicle, I remember suddenly. Just for a moment I imagine peeling the collar of his shirt back, touching it with my tongue.
Pull it the hell together, Robinson, I scold myself. This is strictly business, remember?
I clear my throat. “So, the kids,” I say, sliding my wine glass slightly further away. Alcohol is not about to help this situation, that’s for sure. “What’s your game plan?”
“Game plan?” Cal looks at me blankly. “Like, for custody?”
“No, for the kids themselves.” I frown. “For school, therapy, that kind of thing.” I hesitate. “Cal, are you sure you know what you’re getting into?”
“Of course,” he says, and I can tell he’s bristling a little. “I love those kids.”
“No, of course,” I echo quickly. “I know that.” I do, too. I can tell by the way he looks at them: the way he hauled Ezra over his shoulder on the way to bed earlier and the familiar way he teased Lottie about her favorite boy band. I think again of that speech he gave the judge this afternoon, the how sincere and unpolished he sounded; I’d be willing to bet good money that’s not par for the Cal McAdams course. “Have you really thought it through, though?” I ask gently. “It just seems like maybe your life isn’t totally set up to take care of these guys yet.” I gesture around. “I mean, that car, this place—”
“What do you mean?” he interrupts, eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong with my place?”
“I mean, nothing, if you’re Patrick Bateman,” I say before I can think better of it.
“What, like American Psycho?” he asks, sounding wounded.
“I mean, without the murder and sadism,” I clarify quickly. “Like, hopefully.”
Cal makes a face. “Thanks a lot.”
“I’m kidding,” I promise—smiling, trying to lighten the mood a little bit. “I just mean that kids are a handful, is all.”
Cal doesn’t smile back. “People always say that,” he complains, “like parenthood is some exclusive club you need a password to get into. But kids are little people, that’s all. If you treat them like adults, they’ll behave like adults.”
I’m about to call him out for being such a patronizing ass when I’m interrupted by Ezra’s tiny voice.
“Hey Cal?” He’s standing at the mouth of the hallway in his PJ pants and Boston Bruins T-shirt, holding what looks like—oh God, what is definitely—a super-sized box of condoms. “What are these weird balloons you had in the nightstand?”
I look from Cal to Ez, then back again. “Sorry,” I say sweetly. “What was that you were saying?”
“Uh,” Cal says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, buddy, they’re actually—”
“Are they for balloon animals?” Ezra continues, opening the box and pulling out a long strip of foil packets. He rips one open before Cal or I can stop him, holding up its contents between two small fingers. “The colors aren’t very good,” he observes, sounding disappointed. “And they’re kind of . . . sticky.”
“Oh, bud, give me that.” Cal holds his hand out. “Here—”
“Can you make a dog?” Ezra asks hopefully. “My dad knew how to make a dog.”
“Yeah, Cal,” I say, sitting back on my barstool and tilting my head to the side, biting back a grin. “Can you make a dog?”
“I—” Cal breaks off with a grimace, looking from Ezra to me and back again. “Of course I can make a dog,” he says, then puts his mouth around the condom and blows.