Page 84 of Paternal Instincts
My husband laughed as he loosened his tie. “You’re digging your own grave.”
I sighed. “I know.”
“He’s got you wrapped around his paw.”
“Believe me, we discussed it.”
“Are you going to be this way with our child?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Figures. Is there any food for me, or did you two eat it all?”
“In the fridge.”
Quaid joined me with his dinner, and the furry bastard put on a great show for Quaid as well, only my husband was far more resistantto the cat’s charm. Oscar eventually gave up, climbed his tree, and fell asleep.
After we ate, we stretched out on the couch. I spooned Quaid in my arms and weaved our legs together as we watched the news. It was our favorite nightly ritual whenever we were home together. Mostly, we chatted about our day as the program played in the background.
“First thing in the morning, we go see Benedict and Bess Davis,” he mumbled after explaining what Ruiz had found in his search.
“I’ll pick up the warrants beforehand, and we can get a cheek swab while we’re there.”
“I want to talk to Diane at some point. Imogen’s mother. I think she knows about the money, and since she seems to hate Benedict, maybe she’ll tell us what it’s all about.”
“Unless the money’s entire purpose is to shut her up.”
Quaid hummed. “Oh. Remind me to call Dad in the morning. I haven’t talked to him all weekend. I want to check in. The doctor was supposed to call him Friday with a surgery date.”
After years of pain and stubborn refusal, Abraham Valor had finally decided to go through with a knee replacement. It would likely be the end of the year before it happened, but it was finally happening, and Quaid’s relief was palpable. He hated seeing his father in so much pain.
“And Bryn,” Quaid mumbled. “We have to call Bryn again.”
“We will.”
“Shit. I have to do laundry.” He made to get up.
I locked my arms around him tighter. “Not now.”
“Az.”
“Not now. It’s late, and you barely slept last night.”
His fight waned. “Tomorrow morning.”
“If there’s time.”
Quaid’s warm body grew progressively slacker. His sentences extended and slurred with oncoming sleep. I should have suggested we get ready for bed, but I was comfortable and enjoying the cuddle. Our days could be busy, so I savored those times when the world existed on the periphery, and it was simply Quaid and me and nothing else.
He mumbled something about Ruiz and boy’s names, mentioned the laundry again, and babbled incoherently about something I didn’t catch.
His breathing slowed and deepened. The conversation drifted away. Before the news program ended, my exhausted husband was fast asleep. I was hard-pressed to encourage him to move to the bedroom. I’d rather he slept on the couch in his clothes than risk disturbing his slumber. Knowing Quaid, he might lie awake for hours stewing over the case.
I couldn’t reach the lamp on the side table without jostling him, nor could I access the remote for the TV. Instead, I savored the weight of Quaid against me. Indulged in his scent. Absorbed his peace.
I kissed his nape and whispered, “I love you.”
He didn’t respond.
