Page 81 of Stolen Dreams
The heady joy simmering in my veins, the woman at my side, my son having the time of his life… couldn’t picture a better day if I tried. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep this slice of paradise.
After a few hours, the downside of my sugar high hits and my energy plummets. Not ready for the day to end, an idea sparks. The only trouble I’ll have is convincing Tucker. Fingers crossed, I sway him.
“T-Man, let’s get out of here before it’s impossible.”
“No.” The whiny two-letter word sounds a mile long. “The fireworks haven’t started yet.”
I bend down and drop my voice. “What if I know of a better place to watch the fireworks?”
His eyes light up. “Really?”
“Yep.” I nod. “And what if I told you we”—I gesture between me and him—“can also make a special dinner for the three of us? Whatever we want.”
“Ooh.” He rubs his hands together and bounces in place. “Anything?”
“Mm-hmm. Anything,” I repeat in affirmation.
“Let’s go.” He grabs my hand and tugs me forward.
All I can do is laugh.
We fight the crowd—on the sidewalk and streets—for almost an hour before we reach a quieter roadway. Music filters through the car speakers as Tucker asks what he should name the massive stuffed bear he won at one of the games. He ticks off names and asks Kaya which one she thinks is the best.
By the time I turn into the vacant lot at Calhoun’s Bistro, Tucker announces the winning name—Brody the Bear. Easy enough to remember.
I park in my usual spot at the back of the restaurant. Kaya side-eyes me before we exit the car and laughs.
“What?”
“Day off and you decide to come to work.” She shakes her head, but the smile grazing her lips says she’s anything but disappointed.
We exit the car and head for the back door, my hand going to the small of Kaya’s back. Tucker stumbles a bit, Brody the Bear obstructing his view. And as we step inside, I relay why I chose the restaurant over our houses.
I put a finger up. “This kitchen is far superior to mine.” I add a second finger. “The food selection is better than my pantry at the moment.” Another finger goes up. “Watching me in this kitchen is a much better experience than the house.” I smirk and add a fourth digit. “Easy cleanup.” Final finger pops up. “And we’ll have the best view of the fireworks out back past the tree line while we enjoy our picnic dinner.”
I have never considered myself a romantic—not that I’m opposed to flowers, notes, and gestures; they have their place—but I’ve never been with someone who made me want to give or do those things. To woo them.
Until now.
Studying me from across the room, Kaya warms me in unimaginable ways. Makes me feel like the biggest tender heart. Like I’m more than eye candy online, more than my family’s name, more than a single father. She stares into my soul and seesme.It makes me dizzy, catapults my pulse. Heats my skin. Gives me new life.
With Kaya, displaying affection through gestures comes naturally. As easy as breathing. A simple caress, her hand in mine, stolen glances, the love I pour into every dish I cook her.
As our relationship evolves, so will the ways I tell her how important she is in my life.
“A picnic during the show sounds perfect,” she says, my favorite shade of pink coloring her cheeks.
I grab a chair for Kaya and have her sit where she has a full view of us. “Be right back.” I wink and cross the kitchen.
Tucker’s hand in mine, I guide us down the short hall toward the walk-in. A shiver ripples through him as the door closes behind us. He tugs his hand free and wraps his arms around his middle. Grabbing a coat from the hook, I help him shrug it on. I can’t help but laugh when it hits the floor and drags behind him. But at least he’s warm.
“Let’s do something fun and easy since it’s a picnic,” I suggest. I ask for his ideas, and he rattles off several. We narrow it down by the ingredients we have available and get to work.
Grabbing two of the small baskets off to the side, I load up on ingredients, making sure his basket isn’t too heavy. Once we have what we need, we head back to the kitchen and unload. I locate a footstool and apron for Tucker. Separate the ingredients, hand him a paring knife, and show him how to cut each item.
“Remember to tuck your fingers and take your time. Better to be slow than cut yourself.”
Tucker nods. “I got this, Dad.”