“Yeah, I think they’re pretty special, but I’m a little biased,” King admitted with a proud smile, and Mia grinned back at him just as Clayton cleared his throat in an obnoxious attempt to interrupt.
I smothered my smile as my kids both rolled their eyes, then almost lost it as King turned to my ex-husband and said, “You OK there, Clay?”
Clayton narrowed his eyes at King. “I preferClayton,” he stressed. My ex hated having his name shortened, and always had. Maybe that should have been my first clue that he would morph into an insufferable prig over the years.
That had been a favorite insult of my late, British grandmother, although she would have been appalled had shelived long enough to witness Clayton transform into one. She’d actually liked him. Of course so had I, back then.
Hunter and Mia cringed, and I snorted in disgust as I rolled my eyes again. King eyed him up and down, and the look on his face made it clear that he wasn’t impressed. I bit my lip to keep from laughing as he copied Clayton’s disdainful tone from earlier, when he merely responded, “Of course you do.”
“What’s for dinner, Mom? I’m starving.” I glanced at Hunter as he swiped a blueberry muffin off the counter and shoved half of it into his mouth at once.
“Yeah, me too,” Mia said, grabbing a muffin for herself. It was a good thing I’d made extra.
Clayton made a show of looking at his watch, a Rolex he’d bought shortly before I’d caught him boinking his receptionist. He shook his head at the kids as he reminded them that they’d just finished lunch at the club two hours ago.
“That’s why we’re starving,” Hunter told him, then polished the rest of the muffin.
“They served veal, Mom.” Mia shuddered in disgust. She was not a fan.
“With steamed asparagus,” Hunter chimed in with his complaint as he reached across the counter for a cookie.
“It was a deliciously prepared meal. You’re both almost adults. It’s time you expand your palate beyond cheeseburgers,” Clayton protested.
“Sugar, do you have anything planned for dinner, or should we order some pizzas?” King asked me with a shit-eating grin, and I swear that Clayton’s blood pressure shot up forty points – either at the endearment or the offer of pizza, I wasn’t sure which.
“I have a big pan of lasagna in the refrigerator, ready to go in the oven,” I answered, not even trying to hide my amusement. I’d prepared it earlier, knowing the kids would likely be hungry when they came home. They usually were on days they ate at the club.
“Oh, thank God. King, you’ve got to taste Mom’s lasagna. It’s the best.” King smiled at Mia’s invitation, then glanced at me for approval. I nodded, and his smile grew.
“Are you making your cheesy garlic bread with it?” I laughed at Hunter as he gave me his best “pretty please” look. He’d perfected it as a little boy, and it usually worked on me.
“Don’t I always?”
Hunter pumped his fist in the air, causing me to laugh again. I had a feeling he was trying to piss off his father with his over-the-top reaction, and I couldn’t find it in me to give one single shit.
I started to turn around to get the lasagna out of the refrigerator, but King stepped up behind me and placed both hands firmly on my waist to stop me. I jumped, startled, then looked at him over my shoulder as he bent down to whisper in my ear.
“Stay where you are. You have my handprints on your ass.” At my look of horrified confusion, he added, “The flour.”
Oh fuck. That was not something I wanted to have to explain to my kids, especially not with Dr. Douchebag in the room.
“Ella?Ella?” I jumped again as I realized that Clayton had been calling my name. By the pinched look on his face, he was either constipated, or pissed off that King was touching me. I suppose it was petty of me to hope that it was a mixture of both.
“Yes, Clayton?” I managed to keep my voice calm, as if it were an everyday occurrence to have a gorgeous silver fox plastered against my back in the middle of my kitchen.
“I need to get home to Sabrina, but I would like to speak with you for a moment.Privately,” he added, glaring over my head at King.
Oh hell, no. We weren’t playing that game.
“I don’t want to be rude to my guest. Just call me later, or better yet, send me a text,” I said dismissively. “Kids, why don’t you walk your dad out?” I wasn’t above using my kids as a buffer, especially since I needed them out of the room so I could wipe the flour off the seat of my pants.
“But –“
Damn, he was a persistent asshole sometimes.
“Goodbye, Clayton. See you on Wednesday.” My tone was civil, but I made it clear that he needed to leave. Now.
In addition to Sunday afternoons, he had the kids overnight on Wednesdays, per the custody arrangement. He hadn’t requested any more time with them than that, which bothered me far more than it did either of my kids. They were incredible human beings, and I was saddened that Clayton couldn’t see beyond his own inflated sense of self-importance to spend more time with his own children.
