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“I like to think so. I help the people who need it directly, no filters, no middlemen. And I make enough money that I don’t need to prey on people for survival.”
Damn, I was really starting to like him. I could see why Stacy had taken his rejection of Leo so hard. It seemed out of character. “You’re a protector.”
“Some might say that. And you?”
“I’m a mom.”
“A protector.”
I shrugged. “And an author.”
His brows rose. “Impressive.”
“Not really. It allows me to provide for Leo while looking after him.”
His brows dipped as if something clicked. “You do think there’s a danger out there.” He finished off his beer and stood. “Come on, pixie. Let’s go check those boxes.”
Chapter Seven
Diesel
“You like eggs, kid?” I didn’t know what the fuck kids ate for breakfast. I didn’t even remember what I ate when I was Leo’s age.
He nodded, his messy blond hair sticking up all over his head. “I love eggs!”
That was good. Right? Unless the kid was playing me. “Then we’re having eggs for breakfast.” Ellie had been up late into the night doing who knew what, so I decided to let her sleep in. There was something to the family curse she’d mentioned because I’d seen it with my own eyes, just how stricken she was with fear as she stared at Stacy’s boxes. “You like fried or scrambled?”
Leo shrugged and I couldn’t help but smile. In so many ways he was so mature, then moments like this reminded me that he was just four years old.
“That’s okay, I’ll make both and you can tell me which one you like better.” It was early as fuck in the morning, not even eight o’clock, and I was up because Leo was. I hadn’t been up this early since my days in the military, but I opened my eyes and there was a little head and blue eyes bent over me, grinning wide.
The kid had a fuck ton of energy, which I envied, but it was refreshing and slightly energizing to be around him. He had so many questions and he talked so much, about everything, that there wasn’t a moment of peace. I was finally starting to get a taste of the permanent exhaustion combined with endless affection of parenthood.
“Are you happy to be my dad?”
The question came out of left field, and I froze. How in the hell did you answer a question like that from a four-year-old? Honestly. “Of course I am.”
“You are?”
I turned to see Leo’s wide-eyed expression and my heart seized up at the hope in his eyes. “Hell yeah, I am.”
He gasped. “You said a bad word.”
“I did?”
Leo gave an exaggerated nod. “You said…” he looked around until the coast was clear, grinned, and whispered, “…hell.”
“Sorry.” Was hell a bad word? Shit! I’d better watch my language around my son. “I’m glad you’re my kid. I wasn’t sure if I would ever have kids, but now here you are and you look so much like me when I was a kid. It’s fucking incredible.”
Leo gasped again, louder this time, both palms slapping against his cheeks in such a comical exaggeration of shock that it was all I could do to hold back a bout of snorting laughter.
“Sorry!” I choked, trying to look apologetic as I turned back to the second batch of eggs. “Sorry, buddy. I’ll try and do better.”
“Do you have a dad?”
“I do,” I answered easily. “His name is Dave, but I call him Dad.”
“Can I call you Dad?”
