Page 49 of Forgotten Romance

“Daddy, rawr at me.”

“I didn’t roar at you.”

He cackles and goes to bolt, but I nab him just in time, and then I wrap him in the towel like a straitjacket and haul him over my shoulder.

“That’s one contained,” I cry out to Mack. “Where’s the other one?”

“She was picking out toys to take with her tonight.”

I make a mental note to remind her to pack clothes as well this time. Last time I dropped them off at my parents’ for the night, I got a call an hour later, asking where their pajamas were. Apparently, five-year-olds can’t be trusted with that level of responsibility.

I dress Van, then check both of their backpacks have everything they need before I let them pile toys on top. Then, I join Mack in the kitchen. The urge to wrap my arm around his waist and kiss his head is strong, but I remind myself that isn’t us anymore.

“Smells good.”

“Thanks, it’s a vegetable casserole.”

Which translates to a sloppy, saucy mess, but I’ll eat every damn scrap on my plate. “Yum. But you know, you don’t have to cook every night. I’m okay to whip up dinner too.”

“I know,” he mutters, face falling. “I … it’s fine. I like it.”

That’s the biggest lie I’ve ever heard. Not that he hates cooking or anything, but I know there’s no passion there. Still, every time I try to step in, he gently nudges me back out again.

Considering cooking isn’t my thing either, I’m not going to fight him over it.

“I’ll set the table.”

It’s another family dinner with Kiera getting food everywhere and needing to be changed, while Van is up and down constantly, either climbing around under the table or running from room to room, grabbing trucks and cars and action figures.

Somehow, we manage to get his plate cleared between us both, but by the time we’re done, we’re running late.

“What time were we supposed to be getting to this party?” I ask Mack.

“Seven. But if we’re half an hour late, who cares?”

“Pretty sure Art will.”

Mack pulls an oopsie face as he closes the front door behind us all. “Should I text him, do you think?”

“Nah. He’ll enjoy his moment of being dramatic about it, and then we can all move on. It’ll be like our early Christmas gift to him.”

“Wait. Are we supposed to get them gifts?”

I laugh and sling my free arm around Mack’s shoulders, then give in to that urge to kiss the side of his head. “It was a secret Santa, and I’ve got you covered.”

The tension in his body relaxes. “Thank you.”

“You can thank me by putting that one in the car.” I nod back to where Van is stomping in the sludgy front yard. Still no snow, but we’ve been getting promising little fluff that melts instantly and makes the ground all wet.

“That’s fair.” Mack rounds him up while I dump the bags in the back and strap Kiera in.

Art’s Christmas party is one of his more low-key gatherings. This one is our friendship group, plus a few friends of friends, instead of the entire Divorced Men’s Club, and he always does it early in December to stop it clashing with the festival and any other family things people have on.

It usually ends up getting messy, hence why the kiddies are off for a sleepover. Not that I plan on drinking a whole lot, but I know Mack will. Which is fine by me. My husband is an adorable drunk, which isn’t a thing many people can pull off.

Mom hugs me and Mack tight when we get there, and the kids rush off to show Dad the hoard they’ve brought. I’m about to follow them when my phone rings.

The name on the display makes my gut sink.

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