The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(56)

My kids are nearly ready for bed.

And I am more than ready for one Mr. Levi Wilson to be back in Copper Valley.

He’s not due back from Germany until tomorrow sometime, but since he called late last week, we’ve been texting like crazy, and we have a date.

A date.

I mean, a fling kind of date, but still. Portia’s taking all three kids for a sleepover Wednesday night. I went shopping for lingerie. And Levi’s cooking.

For me.

At his place.

Where there are no children, no squirrels, and no interruptions.

But I have to get through tonight first, then tomorrow, and then all day Wednesday. And I can’t quite stay busy enough to distract myself from thinking about him.

And a night of grown-ups being grown-ups.

Talking without interruption. Eating hot food while it’s hot and cold food while it’s cold.

Sex.

We are so having sex.

“Mom! Hudson licked my arm!”

“Zoe said Mr. Axolotl is a fibbamibbian!”

“He is an amphibian! Ow! Piper! What are you doing?”

I love my children. I do. And I want them to remember childhood with fond memories of doing the things they loved and knowing that I love them.

But I am so ready for Wednesday night. Forty-eight hours.

Forty-eight hours until I get my first real night off in—actually, I’m not going to finish that sentence.

It’s for the best.

I finish folding the last of the laundry and head out of my room with the kids’ stuff in a basket. “Zoe. Shower. Hudson. Back to your room. Piper, put your—Piper.” I nudge her with my foot, since she’s laying in the middle of the hallway, poring over the same Sports Illustrated issue she’s read three times a day since it arrived over the summer, ignoring me, which means she took her hearing aids out so she didn’t have to listen to her brother and sister argue.

She looks up at me.

My hands are full—no signing get your tush to your room and get ready for bed, so I settle for giving her a mom look.

She rolls her eyes.

Rolls. Her. Eyes.

She’s seven.

And she’s flipping back to Sports Illustrated like it’s more important than the mom look. Even the squirrel on her shoulder is ignoring me. “Ares is in this issue.”

I nudge her again, which earns me a dirty look from Skippy. I’m very aware of which issue she’s reading, because it’s the only issue she ever reads. “Bed,” I say, very distinctly, when she scowls up at me. “Skippy too.”

“Ares’s mom didn’t make him go to bed.”

“Yes, she did. He probably talks in that article about how important sleep is, which you can finish reading tomorrow.” It’s pointless to argue. She’s not looking at me, and even if she was, her lip-reading skills only get us so far.

But she climbs off the floor, tucks the magazine under her arm, cradles the squirrel, and heads to her bedroom.

I nudge her again, prop the laundry basket on one hip, and point to my ear.

“They were being annoying,” she grumbles.

I’m suddenly jolted sideways, and I twist in time to grab Hudson by the arm while Piper shrieks and Skippy uses all of our heads as springboards to get back to the living room. “No running in the hallway.”

“Super Axolotl to the rescue!” he crows. “’Scuse me, ma’am, let me put out that fire!”

He points his buggy-eyed amphibian toy at me, hisses like he’s spraying water, and grins.

Zoe stomps out of her room too. “Quit spraying Mom, Hudson. That’s rude.”

“You’re rude!”

“No, I’m helpful. You’re a baby.”

I growl.

Both of my children slide glares at each other, but they also go their separate ways.

An hour later, I collapse on the couch, everyone tucked in, the squirrel in his cage, and I’m staring at the TV, which is muted on a nature channel. I want to read a book or listen to an audiobook, but my nervous energy kicks up and sends me right back up to my feet.

When is Levi getting back?

Will it be first thing in the morning or in the afternoon? Or late tomorrow night?

I don’t know.

And does it matter?

Not really. I have a full day at the shop tomorrow, plus the girls are off, and Hudson only has half a day, and then there’s the preschool Thanksgiving program tomorrow night.

Huh.

I haven’t scrubbed the stovetop in a while. Probably time.

Maybe I’ll tackle the fridge while I’m at it. We have Thanksgiving dinner at Portia’s every year, so it’s not like I’d be cleaning something to make a massive mess again in a few days.

Not that my kids will let anything stay clean more than thirty minutes, but still.

It’s a grown-up thing to do, and one that usually gets neglected.

I cue up my audiobook app and try to concentrate on the mystery I’ve been listening to while I clean, but I’m honestly stealing more and more glances at my text messages.

Do I text Levi?

Do I leave him alone?

I sent the last message in our text string, so technically, it’s his turn. I don’t know his exact schedule, but I know it’s the middle of the night in Germany.

And I know I’m missing an entire chapter in this book.