Page 77 of You Make Me Feel
“Looks like we have a cowboy in the family,” I tell him. He grimaces at me, like he’d rather be anywhere else right now than wrangling kids.
Barney thumps his tail once in protest, clearly disappointed that the game has ended and lollops off to stand under Hudson, hoping to catch some stray pancake.
I take in the kids, who are all standing around Hudson, asking him when the food will be ready, can they have chocolate chips and whipped cream, and can they eat in the den.
Hudson flips a pancake with surgical calm, completely ignoring them all.
“Remind me, how many children do you have?” I ask, doing the math again and coming up wrong. Because last time I looked, he only had two. Did they multiply over night? Are my eyes betraying me? Am I seeing double?
“Still two,” Skyler says, walking in and kissing me on the cheek, looking gorgeously glamorous in a long skirt and cropped t-shirt. “But Hudson is working hard on the third.”
He grunts and Skyler laughs, leaning over to whisper something in his ear. Hudson swallows hard, like she’s told him something so dirty he can’t think straight.
“The other kids slept over last night,” Skyler tells me. “Honestly, once you have two you might as well have ten.”
“Make yourself useful,” Hudson says to me, pointing at the pile of pancakes he’s already made. “Grab some plates for the kids and serve these up. And no, nobody’s eating in the den.”
“Last time we let them, Hudson found maple syrup in his Bang and Olufsen,” Skyler whispers to me. Hudson loves his stereo system. He must have been fuming.
I grab the plates, loading them up like it’s a military operation, adding enough maple syrup to appease the kids without infuriating their parents, then cut up two of them into pieces, because apparently two year olds aren’t dexterous, or trustworthy enough, to use a knife.
But right as I go to carry a plate to the kitchen table, I feel something slam against my leg.
Or rather, I slam intoit, because I’m the one moving.
And my nephew, the little two year old who depends on the world to take care of him, is sent sprawling onto the floor.
Fuck.
I didn’t see him. Had no idea he was there, in my peripheral vision.
He opens his mouth and starts to wail. Tears pour down his little chubby cheeks as I throw the plates on the table and go to pick him up, but I’m beaten there by Hudson andSkyler, who drop to the floor with the speed of parents who live at DEFCON toddler.
Milo’s deafening screams peak, his whole body shaking with the impact of them, and I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“Is he okay?” I ask, my heart slamming against my chest. Christ, he’s tiny. His bones are so damn vulnerable.
Before Hudson can answer, Milo’s screams quieten. As fast as he started, he sucks in a breath, hiccups once, then twice, and goes quiet. His mouth wobbles. His bottom lip threatens mutiny. Tears hang like glass beads on his face.
And my chest fucking caves in.
Skyler gathers him into her lap, murmuring against his hair, while Hudson presses a broad hand to Milo’s back.
“I didn’t see him.” My voice comes out low, scraped, raw in the room full of pancake batter and morning chaos. “He came from nowhere.”
Hudson turns his head toward me, slow, too slow, eyes narrowing with that big brother bullshit that always sees more than he says out loud.
“You didn’t see him,” he repeats.
“No,” I say. “I didn’t.”
Skyler glances between us, rocking Milo gently, her expression softer but sharp around the edges. “Toddlers are stealth operatives,” she says, “I trip over him all the time.”
“Pancake?” Milo says, his little hand lifting toward me on instinct, because he forgives faster than adults ever learn how to.
And damn, that small hand reaching out makes something in me break loud enough that the room should hear it.
“Pancake,” I echo, clearing my throat. “Yeah, buddy, let’s get you fed.”
