Page 66 of Challenged By You
Two little hands immediately shoot up from my kids. But what sends both me and Jonas into mutual hysteria is the dozens of hands from the children nearby who heard my proclamation and are obviously just as done as mine are.
* * *
“I think there’s something missing.”
I lean over, shove the last bite of my sandwich in his mouth. “If your mouth is full, I can’t listen to you criticize the way I cut the sandwiches further.”
Grinning at me around a mouthful of PB&J, Jonas relaxes back against his elbows while I monitor the kids running in circles yelling like banshees. “My evil plan worked.” His words come out mashed together likely because his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. Snagging his bottle of water, he takes a quick glug before announcing for the third time since we started eating, “Your peanut butter ratio is off.”
“I’m going to pour the rest of my drink over your head,” I warn him, not for the first time. But I’m too busy grinning at him to make good on my threat.
Is this how falling in love is supposed to feel? Where the moments of laughter slide into moments of perpetual bliss? Where little moments of normal combine together to form a big ball of everything? Terrified of my thoughts, I face forward and wonder how my life got so far off course the last few weeks. “It was just supposed to be an interview,” I whisper my thoughts aloud.
“What was?” Jonas sits up next to me, bracing an arm perilously close to my butt. Part of me wants nothing more than to lean back against him. The other part—the part that’s had few people to rely on—is afraid. I don’t want to learn the hard way I’m a fool, this time with my kids so emotionally invested in “Nono.”
“We were supposed to just be having an interview,” I improvise quickly.
Then, much to my consternation, the joy of the day falls away. “Okay, Chef. It’s an unusual setting, so you’ll have to excuse me for not being as professional as I normally might be under the circumstances,” he drawls, ice dripping from his voice.
I wince at the change in his demeanor, so relaxed just a moment ago, as he slides his cell from his pocket. Pushing a few buttons, he places his phone between us. “What do you enjoy doing on your days off, Chef Paxton?”
I hate his voice has changed from relaxed to rigid. “Don’t, please. I’m sorry.”
Fathomless dark eyes hold mine for long moments before he grabs the phone. Cursing, he presses a button before flinging it aside. “I didn’t deserve that,” he says bluntly.
“No, you didn’t.” I pinch my fingers on the bridge of my nose to release the pressure building before telling him something I’ve only said to Elle. “I get so tired of being afraid.”
“Of me?” I’ve shocked him.
“Of life,” I’m quick to correct him. “Of wondering if I’m enough.”
“And here I was beginning to think you were Super Mom,” he says lightly while reaching for my hand.
“Don’t be so quick to forget my moods, Jonas,” I warn him.
“That’s up for me to decide isn’t it?”
“I’m moody and temperamental.”
He guffaws. “Who told you that garbage?”
Thinking back, I admit, “Well, it was a chef who I’d just fired, but I do recognize my faults.”
“Why don’t you give me your list, and then we’ll compare?” he suggests.
“I’m not loving the idea you’ve known me for such a short time and you already have a list,” I grumble.
“Just start.” His shoulder bumps mine.
“Well, I mentioned I can be moody. I also have a hairpin temper—something you’re already familiar with since you got stuck with me for a month as a result of it.”
“Uh-huh” is his only reply.
“I’m demanding, almost to a fault. I expect certain things from people who are tied to my life,” I reflect.
“Like what?” He shifts a little.
“Respect. Loyalty. Affection? I don’t want my kids growing up believing their lives shouldn’t revolve around those things, that people aren’t capable of those emotions.”
