Page 10 of Single Mom's Christmas Wish

With that, he whips around and walks back to his car, parked outside my house. A sleek, black Lexus. This man is something else, leaving me all hot and bothered, my breath ragged, my panties slick.

What the hell just happened?I ask myself.

3

Dakota

My alarm is ringing somewhere, far, far away.

But my dream is so sweet and spicy that I can’t bring myself to leave it. Three sets of hands roam up and down my naked body. Strong hands of strong men with shades of green in their eyes. Their fingers trace the contours of my full hips and the softness of my lower belly. Two of them knead my breasts, delighted by their generous size. Another set caresses my face. Fingers then find their way between my legs, searching for that hot wetness… almost there, Archer. Almost there…

“Mommy, wake up!” Maisie’s voice tears through the haze, yanking me out of my dream. My lovely, pint-sized bucket of cold water. Slowly, my eyes peel open. “Mommy, come on. It’s time to wake up!”

I look at her, briefly confused as to where I am. For a moment, I thought we were still in that shoddy apartment in Los Angeles.

“Come on, your alarm keeps ringing.”

“You know how to turn it off,” I grumble and rub my eyes.

“It’s Saturday. You set it on a Saturday.”

I give her a long, intrigued look. “You’re right. I did it on purpose.”

“Where are we going?” she asks, putting on a curious, eager smile. I love the dimples that appear whenever she whips up that signature grin of hers. It makes my heart melt.

“Oh. Actually, only Mommy’s going somewhere.”

And there it goes, fading with remarkable speed. “That’s not fair.”

“I’ll drop you off at Chelsea’s,” I tell her. “I won’t be gone long, and when I come back, what do you say we pop by the Science Museum? There’s that puzzle exhibit I told you about. How does that sound?”

She is clearly excited, but she tries to play it cool, my smart little whip. “Only if we get ice cream after,” she says.

“I’ll even spring for hazelnut gelato.”

“Yes!” she replies, then runs out of my bedroom and straight into the bathroom. “I’ll brush my teeth first then you need to get ready!”

It’s like she knows my habits better than I do. I knew she was special long before those IQ test scores came back. Maisie was quiet for the first two years of her life. At one point, I was getting worried there might be something wrong with her on a developmental level. But then she started to talk, and she blew me away.

There are moments when even I feel like I might not be able to keep up with how fast she’s growing and how fast she’s learning.

Maisie is halfway into her fifth year of life, and she can already read at a fourth-grade level. She is learning how to write—moving on to more complex words—and she speaks Spanish just as well as English. She’s insanely good at chess and has this unique way of breaking down any challenge into manageable pieces. She’s calm in stressful situations but also strong-willed and stubborn.

It’s hard for her to make new friends, but Chelsea keeps a close eye on her during daycare. I fear she will always have a bit of trouble fitting in unless she is able to learn in an environment with equally brilliant kids whom she can relate to.

Most children her age are still enticed by mud pies.

Once we’re dressed and ready to go, we stop by the kitchen for Maisie’s mandatory oatmeal and raisin bowl, on top of which I always add extra fresh berries and a handful of nuts.

I check my phone.

It’s seven fifty-five.

There’s a message from Chelsea confirming that she’s waiting for us. I texted her last night, though I didn’t give her a specific reason as to why I have to drop Maisie off. It’s weird enough that I’m going on a coffee date with a guy who tracked me down through my phone number, one who’s also drop-dead gorgeous and has a smart mouth on him.

“Okay, so I’m probably going to be out for a couple of hours,” I tell Maisie while she scarfs down her breakfast. “You need to be a good girl for Chelsea until I get back.”

“I’m always a good girl,” she replies, slightly insulted.

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