Page 68 of Aria

I took my seat and eyed the steaming pile of flapjacks. A bowl of fresh fruit was set in the center of the table, so I snatched a grape and popped it into my mouth. “Such service,” I quipped to Noah, watching as he made his way around the kitchen like he was trying out for a competitive cooking show. “I had no idea you enjoyed cooking.”

Noah glanced my way while he lit up a skillet and tossed bacon slices into the pan. “Enjoy, yes. Do I have time for it? Almost never,” he admitted. “My schedule is insane. I’m lucky if I have time to make a sandwich. Rosa usually takes over in the cooking department.”

I decided that was a shame because he had made some top-notch pancakes. Bobbing my head with approval, I shoveled another forkful into my mouth. “These are so good. Thank you.”

“Did I do a good job?” Sam looked between us, searching for praise.

“You sure did, buddy,” Noah said. He strolled over to the table, carrying a platter of sizzling bacon, and took a seat beside me.

“Miss Chelsie? Why did you have a sleepover in Daddy’s room?”

I almost choked on my food. Sam was using his fork to make designs in the syrup on his plate, having no concept of what his innocent query implied. I cleared my throat. “Well, your dad got home a little late last night and I was really tired. It was safer for me to stay here and sleep, instead of drive home.”

“Because you might crash in your car?” he wondered.

“Sure, it was possible. It’s always better to be safe.”

“Can you have a sleepover with me in my room next time? I have a sleeping bag you can use.”

My cheeks stretched with a smile. “That would be really fun.”

“Miss Chelsie?”

“Yes, Sam?”

Sam set his fork down with a clumsy clatter and began to swing his legs back and forth. “Can you be my mom?”

The question sucked the air from my lungs. I glanced at Noah, but I couldn’t read him. I hated when I couldn’t read him. “Oh, um, well…” Stuttering, I didn’t know what to say. I swallowed back an assortment of explanations and excuses because nothing felt right. How could I respond without breaking his precious heart?

No matter how I phrased it, the answer was still…no.

“Sammy,” Noah cut in. “Chelsie can’t be your mom.”

“Because she’s already someone else’s mom?” Sam asked, unaware of the tension mounting in the room.

“She just can’t. Now, eat your food.”

Setting my fork down, I folded my hands on the table and forced a smile of reassurance. “Sam, it means so much that you would ask me to be your mom. I care about you and your dad a lot. Being your mom would be very special,” I explained. “But I can only be your friend.”

Sam picked at a dollop of dried food that was stuck to the table. “Is it because I’m bad sometimes?”

Tears prickled my eyes. My heart ached. “Oh, honey, that’s not it at all. You’re a good boy.” I reached out a hand to comfort him, but Sam pushed his chair back and hopped down.

“Nobody wants me,” he said tearfully before jogging out of the room.

I cupped a hand over my mouth, gutted, spinning to my right to look at Noah. He was leaning back in his seat, his eyes closed, stance taut and rigid. “I – I’m sorry if I butchered that. I didn’t know what to say.”

A muscle in his cheek ticked. “It’s fine. There’s nothing else you could have said.”

When Noah opened his eyes, the sorrow on his face was unmistakable. I bit down on my tongue, wringing my hands together in my lap. “I had no idea he had been thinking about that,” I choked out.

Noah let out a heavy sigh. “MaybeIneed to start thinking about that…” he considered. “Settling down. Laying roots. Maybe that’s what he needs.” Noah zoned out momentarily. “Sometimes I just wish…”

I braced myself for the rest of his words, but they never came. There was only silence. I reached out my hand and placed it on his knee. “You’re doing a good job, Noah. A great job. He’s going to be okay.” Noah’s face turned stoic. The sadness left his eyes as quickly as it had appeared.

He drew his lips into a tight line, pushing his tongue against his cheek. “You should probably go.”

With a small frown, I glanced down at my plate of half-eaten breakfast. I could tell his suggestion was a kindly disguised order, and I supposed I understood.

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