Built (Saints of Denver #1)(84)
“Sometimes I want to call him Dad.”
I sucked in a breath through my teeth. I wasn’t sure I was the person he should be having this conversation with. “Try and get as many of the lumps out as you can.” I pointed to one big blob of batter in the bowl and walked over so that I could lean on the counter next to him. “Have you mentioned to Zeb that you might want to call him Dad?”
He shook his head and I heard his feet thumping under the counter as he kicked them up and down.
“No. What if he doesn’t like it?”
I reached out and put a finger under his chin and turned his face up so that he was looking at me. “Hyde, do you think Zeb is honest with you?”
The little boy considered me thoughtfully for a second and I tried not to cringe as he let go of the spoon and it slipped all the way into the bowl and was sucked up by the gooey batter.
“Yeah. Zeb doesn’t lie.”
“So if you tell him that you want to call him Dad, then you know he’ll tell you how he really feels about it. I bet you a hundred bucks it makes him really happy and that he might even cry.” It was a hedged bet. I knew I was going to win the bet and lose the money because there was no way that Zeb wouldn’t at least tear up when Hyde asked that question. A hundred dollars would buy the little man a lot of pizza and make the emotional moment between father and son even more special.
I wiggled my eyebrows up and down, which made Hyde laugh. “Zeb won’t cry.” He sounded so sure of the fact. The adorable little boy had no clue just how much of an effect he had on his big, bearded father.
I stuck out a hand. “A hundred bucks says he does.”
Hyde put his hand in mine and screwed up his face in concentration. “I don’t have a hundred bucks, though. I only have ten quarters.”
Could the kid be any more precious? The answer to that was a resounding “hell no.” “You don’t have to give me your quarters. If you win and Zeb doesn’t cry when you ask him, all you have to give me is your best hug. Deal?”
He shook our joined hands vigorously and grinned at me. “Deal.”
I tugged him closer, so that our noses were almost touching, and mock-whispered, “Do you want to know a secret?”
His evergreen eyes popped wide and he nodded so vigorously that for a second I thought he was going to slide off the stool. I put my lips on his baby-soft cheek and gave him a little peck.
“It doesn’t matter to your dad what you call him . . . Daddy, Zeb, Zebulon, Old Man River, Mr. Giant, Captain Beardo, Paul Bunyan . . . all he cares about is that you’re here to call him anything. He simply wants you, Hyde. No matter what, I want you to remember that, okay?”
He gave a jerky little nod and I pulled away and took the bowl with me over to the stove so that I could try again to make pancakes once I found another spoon. There was no way I was going fishing for the one that was at the bottom of the bowl. I would end up with batter in even more places than I already had it.
I had everything set up and was intently focused on my task when Hyde’s voice drifted to me from across the room.
“How come you only have one red wall?” He had climbed off the stool and was standing in front of the poppy-colored wall, studying it with his head tilted a little to the side.
“Uh, your dad actually painted it for me. I have a friend who lives with me and he asked her to pick out a color to cheer her up. That was the color she chose.”
“I like it. It’s bright.”
“I like it, too, and when the pancakes are done and hopefully not burned this time around, we can go wake Poppy up and you can tell her you like it. She’ll be thrilled.”
“Are you gonna have my dad paint more?”
I felt my spine go stiff at the stove as the butter melted and sizzled on the griddle. I wondered if he even realized that he had referred to Zeb as his dad. “No. I wasn’t going to have him paint any more. Just that one wall.”
He made his way over to me and I cautioned him to keep his hands clear of the top of the stove.
“Do you like it like that?”
I looked down at him. “Like what?”
“Everything so boring. The red wall is better.”
I bit the inside of my lip and turned my head to look at it. “You’re right. It is better.”
And no, I didn’t like the rest of the house being plain and boring. It was supposed to be soothing and comforting; instead I felt like the entire inside lacked personality and that every single neutral-toned wall mocked me as I walked by it. I sighed and pulled the pan off the heat.
“Let’s go get Poppy and dive into our masterpiece, shall we?”
He followed me without argument.
Luckily Poppy was already up and in the living room when we went to fetch her. I should’ve known she wouldn’t be able to sleep through the doorbell going off. Hyde took an immediate liking to her, and the three of us spent the rest of the morning eating pancakes, coloring on the back of computer paper, and playing band with overturned pots and pans. Hyde was quite the drummer, and I was surprised at how dedicated Poppy was to her role as lead air guitarist. I, by default, ended up as lead singer, which sucked for them since the only songs I knew the lyrics to were eighties heavy metal. After the second round of “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” Poppy threw in the towel and claimed she needed a nap. Hyde also looked a little heavy-eyed, so I set him up on the couch with Nickelodeon on the TV. He was out before I could turn around and cover him up with a blanket.