Page 88 of The Boss and the Adoption Mess
I silence my phone and switch it to airplane mode. Only then do I get out of the car and walk through the garage into the house.
Even from the hall I hear giggling coming from the kitchen. A sweet Christmas song is playing, Kimberley and Rosie singing along cheerfully. The warm smell of fresh cookies drifts out tomeet me. Just hearing their joy makes me smile—seeing them will be even better.
I lean against the doorway and watch Kim swaying to the music, her hips moving in time while Rosie stands on a little stool with her arms raised high. The oven’s on, more cookies baking inside.
They’re adorable.
“The whole house smells like cookies,” I say, smiling at them as they both turn around.
“Uncle Gabriel!” Rosie squeals, jumping off her stool and running to me. I scoop her up and head toward Kimberley.
“You were gone forever,” Rosie says. “We haven’t eaten yet.”
“Well, I’ll make you something delicious right now. What are you in the mood for?”
“French fries!”
Of course. What else?
“With?”
“Mayo.”
“I was thinking more like veggies or a salad.”
“Hm. No, mayo’s fine. You don’t need to bother. Nobody eats the veggies anyway.”
Ice-cold honesty. Kids just say what they think.
“Well, I like vegetables,” I say, glancing hopefully at Kimberley, who’s trying not to laugh.
“Yeah, me too,” she finally says.
“Great. More fries for me!” It’s clear-cut. Rosie’s taste is non-negotiable. I set her back on her stool and take in the little kitchen chaos I’ve walked into. How am I supposed to cook something healthy for my little family here? Somehow I’ll make it work.
After dinner and bedtime stories, I’m back in the kitchen cleaning up. Kimberley’s already changed for bed but comes to help me anyway.
She’s wearing a robe, her long wild curls piled into a bun, the sweet freckles on the back of her neck exposed.
“What is it?” she asks, embarrassed.
I must have been staring too long. Caught, I just keep looking at her, smiling. No makeup, comfy sweatpants, pink plush slippers—the woman of my dreams.
“I wanted to talk to you,” I say. It’s time.
“Sure. About what? Rosie’s french-fry habit?” she teases.
“No… about…” I hesitate. “Something important. Serious.”
“Okay?” She’s still smiling as she dips her hands into the dishwater. The dishwasher’s already full, so we’re washing the pots and pans by hand. I dry one of the pots and set it aside as her expression grows more uncertain.
“These past few days I’ve been to family court. I didn’t tell you,” I begin.
“Oh…”
“Once I even took Rosie, because she was being questioned.”
“Oh.” She’s staring at me now, serious.
