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Different.
But not worse.
It was fucking amazing.
Especially when I got to hear the sounds of my kiddo laughing mixing with the gentle giggles of my wife.
“I can do it!”
I grinned, hung up my keys on the hook that Hazel had me install when we’d first moved in together—my soft-spoken wife was surprisingly stubborn-minded about any and all forms of home décor.
Something I gave in to.
Because…I’d do anything that would make her happy.
Including hanging a tiny shelf with a row of hooks on it in four different places before she’d decided on this one.
Because…I’d also good at patching holes.
“I know you can, baby,” Hazel said gently, “but you don’t need so much…”
I heard the plop from the hallway, and winced, making a quick stop at the row of hooks for our jackets (which had only taken three relocations before it had been secured in its final location). My shoes didn’t land on the shoe rack because I needed those for traction and maneuvering, and I didn’t think the loudness of that plop meant I should delay in hustling toward my wife and kiddo and running whatever kitchen interference—coughcleanup—I would need to provide.
I could change into my house shoes later.
Turning the corner, I all but screeched into the kitchen and—
Blinked.
That was a mess.
And a half.
Hazel was looking wide-eyed between her shirt, which was covered with bright white icing, and Dominic, our son, who was looking equally as wide-eyed and covered in bright white icing…and the cabinets, and the floor (newsflash, both of which were also splattered with white icing).
How did that much icing exist, let alone manage to coat the people and the things I loved?
And not on the gingerbread houses, which were lying in scattered piles.
A couple of roof pieces, walls, a chimney, a…
I tilted my head to the side.
A tiger? An elephant? And a…dinosaur.
Hazel blinked once more at Dominic then must have sensed me standing there because her head jerked in my direction, cheeks going pink, teeth sinking into her bottom lip, she lifted her hand, intending to push her hair back—something I knew she did when she was nervous, because I knew her—but I moved toward her, wrapping my fingers around her wrist, halting her before she got a mittful of frosting in her hair.
Of course halting her meant that I had to halt myself.
And I wasn’t paying attention to the icing covering the floor.
Which meant that halting myself became very tricky…
And then impossible.
“Oh shit,” I hissed, my feet sliding out from beneath me, leaving me scrabbling, almost tap-dancing on the icing-spattered floor, and I’d got good at my leg—really, fucking good at it—but sometimes shit like this happened and I couldn’t control it, couldn’t get all of my limbs to cooperate, and—
I went down.
