Page 17 of From the Embers
And trust me, there were a lot of those.
“One more time,” Asher begged from his stool at the bar. “I can catch it this time, I know it.”
Smiling, I scooped the diced waffle onto the tray of Madison’s highchair and glanced over to Luna as she played in the activity saucer. “What do you think? Should I do it again, Lunes?”
“Please, Luna. Say yes, say yes!” Asher yelled.
My daughter bounced twice before shooting me a gummy, slobbery grin.
“All right, buddy. That sounds like a yes to me!” I cut the corner of the puke-green waffle. “Get your choppers open. Incoming in, ten, nine, eight—”
“Absolutely not,” Bree said, walking into the kitchen, empty coffee mug in hand and exhaustion on her face.
“Mooom!” Asher whined.
She pressed a kiss to the top of Madison’s head before moving to her son. “I know. Worst mom ever.” She paused, her gaze snapping to mine. “Is that syrup?”
Shit!
“What? Where?” I snatched Asher’s plate and quickly scraped it into the sink.
“Hey! I was still eating that.”
Strategically avoiding the lasers shooting from Bree’s eyes, I gave the plate the old rinse-and-scrub routine before stashing it in the dishwasher. “No, bud. That was my plate, not yours. Ya know. With all-natural honey. There’s no syrup in this house.” I not-so-sneakily slid the bottle of Hungry Jack behind a canister.
“Nuh, huh. You poured it on my plate and said, ‘Here, Ash, let’s make this edible. Just don’t tell your—’” He snapped his mouth shut so fast that I could hear his teeth clink. “Oops.”
Bree’s lips formed a thin line. “When he’s bouncing off the walls and playing airplane from the top of the stairs later, I’ll be sure to send him out to the pool house.”
“Fair enough,” I mumbled sheepishly.
Shaking her head, she helped him off the stool. “Go brush your teeth. Like six times. And then never eat anything Uncle Eason feeds you again.”
Wise like the owl, he didn’t argue as he bolted up the stairs.
No sooner than he disappeared, Bree’s shoulders sagged, and she sat down on his stool. “Hit me, bartender.”
I forked the last two waffles onto a plate and slid them her way. “How’d your call with Prism go?”
“Like I need to pour a tall glass of red wine at eight a.m.” Using the footrest on the stool, she stood up and leaned over the bar, grabbing the not-so-hidden bottle of syrup. Then she began drowning her waffles.
“Amateur. Morning drinking is dominated by vodka or Irish whiskey or—” I stopped and lowered my head before letting the word champagne trip out of my mouth. I doubted either of us would ever touch the stuff again. “So, Prism…” I led her to continue.
“It’s a mess. Like a genuine grade-A disaster over there.” She tore into her breakfast, a small moan escaping with the first bite of forbidden syrup. “This is better than wine.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Well, let’s see.” She shoveled in another fork-load of breakfast and then talked around it in the least prim-and-proper Bree way possible. “For some asinine reason, Prism contracted a new manufacturer a few months back. Not only did the fabric fail our quality inspections, but they only sent half our order. Meanwhile, the hotels are breathing down our neck for products they’ve already paid for, and we have nothing to send them. Oh, except for pillowcases. We seem to have two full warehouses of those and not one single buyer requesting them. There’s apparently a maintenance guy, some guy named Barton, who hasn’t shown up for a month or been officially terminated. So I guess I’m paying employees to just stay home. Oh, and the best part is I’ve spent all week reaching out to every connection I’d ever had and can’t get anyone to call me back. And in a rather interesting turn of events, HR called today to tell me that I would no longer be covered by Rob’s health insurance because he is no longer employed with Prism, as if I don’t own the entire freaking company myself.”
I headed for the coffee pot. I was on cup number three for the day, but Bree had a strict morning routine. Two-mile run, yoga, protein shake, and only then did she allow herself a perfectly portioned eight ounces of coffee—black no less. However, since she was downing syrup like she was drinking directly from Willy Wonka’s chocolate river, I figured we were making exceptions that morning. I filled her mug and she didn’t hesitate before lifting it to her lips.
“What does all of that mean?” I asked.
“It means I have to go into the office and see if I can figure out what the hell Rob was thinking. Did you know he downsized the comforter division to the point that I could quite literally go back to sewing them in my dorm room and make more profit?”
