Page 37 of Doughn't Let Me Go

I groan at my line of thinking, annoyed with myself. Maybe talking this out with someone else can help me come up with a solution.

“You sure the girls are occupied?” I ask Foster.

He glances up at the seriousness in my tone, studying me hard, then holds his finger up. “Be right back.”

He takes the plate of sandwiches—one for Kyrie and one for Wren—and heads down the hall. I peek around the corner just as he raps his knuckles against the door of the nursery.

“Your Majesty?”

“Yes?” I hear my daughter’s dainty voice.

“I have your lunch, Your Majesty.”

“You may enter, squire.”

Squire?I mouth.

He rolls his eyes.Your kid.

He hurries into the room and I hear him coo at his own daughter before popping back out, making sure to close the door behind him.

“We’re good for about fifteen minutes,” he says as he re-enters the kitchen. “What’s up?”

“Can I get a water?”

He goes to the cabinet beside the fridge and pulls down a glass…and a bottle of booze, offering it to me.

I shake my head. “Not fire water. Regular water. I gotta drive.”

“Right.” He nods. “That makes sense.”

“But I will take that bottle back home with me.”

“Bullshit you will, Mr. Richie Rich. Buy your own booze.”

He fills the glass with ice and water, sliding it over, then chucking a coaster my way. “Wren’s rules.”

“Such a diligent husband.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he mutters, ass pressed up against the counter behind him, arms crossed over his chest. “Tell me what’s going on, man.”

I chug half the glass of water and sigh, letting my shoulders drop.

“I fucked up last night.”

“I thought you were going home to unpack. How’d you fuck that up? Whatever it is you broke, you can replace it.”

I shake my head. “I didn’t go home right away.”

His eyes widen and he stands up straighter, starting to catch on to what I’m telling him.

“You hooked up with someone?”

I nod.

He lets out an excited squeal and I scowl.

“Dude, keep it down.”

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