Page 7 of Ravage

“And try not to let them eat junk all weekend.”

I glanced over at the half-eaten bag of chips on the corner of my desk and snickered, “No promises.”

“Cole.”

“I’ll make sure they’re fed.”

“Actual food?”

“Possibly.”

She laughed. “I’ll pick them up early on Sunday.”

“Sounds good.”

“Thanks, Cole.”

I ended the call and tossed my phone on the desk. I leaned back in my chair and grumbled, “Ted, the forensic accountant. Sounds like a real douchebag.”

Yeah, I didn’t know the man, but I already didn’t like him. Not because he was dating Ava. Hell, I didn’t care who she dated. But I didn’t like the idea of a forensic accountant being so close. If I wasn’t careful, that shit could bite me in the ass.

I spent the next few hours working on bills and scheduling appointments, and by the time I finally glanced up at the clock, it was already after closing. The day had gotten away from me. I had more invoices to sort, a delivery to check on, and with the kids coming, I’d need to hit the grocery store. And I had to get actual food.

I had to prepare for the weekend with my baseball player and human firecracker, and I couldn’t do that sitting in the garage. I finished up with my invoices, and by the time I shut down my computer, the rest of the guys had already gone. I did a quick walk-through, making sure everything was in order before locking up for the night.

I headed out to my truck, and as I got inside, I took a breath. I was about to trade engines and invoices for baseball gloves, pink dresses, and whatever kind of trouble my kids could get into. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend my weekend.

2

EMERY

“What are you going to make today?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You could do another cup for your set or maybe a vase.”

The room smelled like clay and paint with a light mix of lavender. I had a candle burning in the corner, hoping it would make the room feel more comfortable. I’d learned early on that kids notice the little details, so I tried to keep the room simple.

Various stations were positioned around the room. I had one for painting, one for charcoal, and one for pottery. That’s where Reagan and I were sitting now. She had her sleeves pushed up, and her fingers were already pressed into the clay I’d placed in front of her.

She gave me a little shrug. “I don’t know.”

“How about an ornament for Christmas?”

“Maybe.”

The clay was supposed to stay on the table. Reagan knew that, and as she sat there, elbow-deep in a lump of wet clay, she was trying not to make a mess. She was struggling. Bits and pieces were everywhere, but she was making progress. That was the only thing that mattered.

“How was school this week?”

“It was okay.” Reagan shrugged. “We had a sub, and she was nice.”

“That’s good.”

“I made a ninety on my math test.”

“Wow. That’s awesome.”