Page 75 of Her Holiday Heartthrobs

Henry meets my gaze and nods, having a safe, pretend conversation over the toy before he hands it back. He really is good at this.

I try not to fantasize about what it might have been like to have him here for the whole thing. During my pregnancy. During labor. Those terrible first few months when I swear I didn’t sleep at all. Potty training.

How much trouble and money I could have saved my dad…

I can’t undo it, but I can acknowledge that part of it was pride for me. And the other…well, Henry disappeared and that was a clear enough sign to me at the time.

Knowing Henry the way I do now, I have to wonder at his reasons. Trying to protect me from himself, I’m sure.

I shake my head and focus on the final touches, homemade salsa marinates together in one bowl. Cheese shredded in the next. A small bowl of lettuce, because let’s get real, my little monster isn’t a fan of greens. I’m lucky he’ll eat the salsa with his tacos. And I make a sour cream sauce with hot sauce, garlic, and lime.

With the meat cooked and resting on the back burner, I fry up my own shells. It’s one of those touches that Paxton goes wild about. He’ll eat at least one shell on its own—after eating a real taco. That’s our deal.

“Okay, Bubba. Time to clean up for dinner. Tacos are almost ready.”

“Okay.” He’s on his feet, holding a hand out to Henry, who laughs and pretends to let our son help him up.

God, that’s such a nice change.Ourson instead of just mine. I didn’t think I’d like it so much.

Henry groans a little as he stands. “Think I’m a little too old to be on the floor like that.”

I laugh, and he narrows his ice-blue eyes at me. The look doesn’t last long as Paxton pulls his father to the bathroom and shows him how to wash his hands for dinner.

When they’re done, Henry helps set the table and gets Paxton settled in his booster seat before he rounds the counter to assist me. He lingers behind me for a second, nose in my hair, breathing me in before I offer him Paxton’s plate.

That little boy lights up at Henry and I watch it hit him all over again. It’s going to take some time for him to get used to this.

He comes back for his own plate, and we put our tacos together in companionable silence until I catch Paxton reaching for the empty shell instead of his taco.

“Bub, what does Mommy say about the taco shell?”

He pouts but reaches for the taco and takes a bite.

Henry bumps me lightly with his shoulder. “So, how did the nickname Bub or Bubba come about?”

I smile fondly—I can’t help it. “When he was a baby, he’d make this burbling noise, and Dad would make the noise back:bub bub bub bub. It just kinda stuck.”

Glancing at Henry, I see the wistfulness in his faint smile. The longing. And he reaches up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His touch electrifies me, pausing us in this small moment before I snap out of it.

I look at Paxton again, eyeing him as he chews. He gives me his innocent eyes.

Leading Henry to the table, we sit and entertain our son, and Paxton reminds us both—and himself—that Henry is his dad by reaching out to touch his arm or point at him, look at me, and say, “Dada.”

I nod each time and repeat, “Dada.”

Then Paxton smiles at Henry. It gobsmacks him every time. I’m not surprised by the easy acceptance from our son. He took to Henry immediately. More so than Eli and Jake.

Trying not to dwell on the what-ifs, I’m curious what the future will bring. I don’t want him to feel obligated to want me because of Paxton, but I don’t think that’s the case. He’s told me how much he wants a family. How much he likes that I’m a mother.

But does he want everything that comes with being a dad full-time? Certainly, that will get in his way.

I shake my head and finish my food, cleaning up as they seem more focused on each other. After, I hustle Paxton to the couch,and Henry follows, the three of us cuddling as we watch one of his favorite movies, which I’ve seen hundreds of times, but Henry watches it like it’s his first go.

Paxton is sleepy when we set him down together, so we slip out easily, closing my bedroom door behind us. I slowly walk him to the door and turn to his frown. It leans me against the exit, preparing myself for the other shoe to drop.

But he boxes me in with his arms, palms braced against the door on either side of me. The woodsy scent fills my lungs and I want to pull him against me and forget all about the drama.

Instead, I wait.

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