Fight to the Finish (First to Fight #3)(39)

“I do. I just had to teach myself basically everything from scratch. It ate up a lot of time to start with. Eats up more time, now that it’s growing—very slowly—and starting to get advertisers. I’ve had to contract out a few bits and pieces of web design, plus hire a lawyer for the advertising contracts. I’m hoping that breaks even soon, then makes money.”

“I could have helped with that. Next time, bring it to me.” When she looked at him, from behind slightly smudged lenses, his heart simply stopped for a moment. “What?”

She started to speak, then closed her mouth. Then opened it, and closed it again. She was doing a fantastic job of playing Charades . . . as long as the answer was “fish.”

“Kara. What?” He leaned closer and wrapped an arm around her. “What’s up?”

“I . . . where’s Zach?” She glanced at her watch, confirmed with the time on the laptop screen, then gasped. “Oh my God, it’s way past bedtime. He’ll be a nightmare tomorrow morning. How long have I been . . . never mind.” She closed the laptop and stood so fast he reached out in case the whole thing plummeted to the floor. But she caught it and set it on the coffee table.

“Hey, relax. He’s asleep.”

“He’s . . . what?” That had her frozen halfway to Zach’s bedroom door. “No, there’s no way. He was so hyped you were coming over. That’s impossible.”

“That’s totally the truth. Check.” Smugly, he crossed his arms over his chest and waited while Kara peeked in. She popped back out, mouth hanging open.

“He’s asleep.” Disbelief laced her words. “He’s still fully dressed.”

“So? Kids fall asleep in their clothes. Leave him.”

She debated for a moment. “He hasn’t brushed his teeth. You know what? Never mind. One night won’t kill him.”

Graham was pleased she could loosen up on the small things a little. Some moms were militant, like his had been. His mother would have marched in there, demanded he brush his teeth, floss, rinse, and comb his hair before putting on pajamas. At the end of it, he wouldn’t have even been tired any longer. Kara’s natural ability to see the forest for the trees was impressive.

She walked back to the couch and flopped. The natural cushion placement meant she rolled a bit toward him. He gave the couch some help by scooting over enough that she was tucked in against his side, knees bent and nudging against his thigh, head resting on his shoulder. In a word: perfect.

“We have to talk.” Her voice was quiet, but firm. “When you mentioned asking you for help . . .” She trailed off, but he knew she wasn’t falling asleep. He gave her time, letting his fingers run up and down her arm. If it took all night, he’d let her make the next move. “When you mentioned asking you for help with the contracts, it made me wonder if I could ask you for help with something else. Not that you’d be doing work, exactly. Just, maybe, advising?”

He was used to people asking for free advice. Friends, family, even people from high school he barely remembered but found him on Facebook. Everyone wanted to know what a lawyer thought, nobody wanted to pay for the privilege. With Kara, it felt different. He sensed asking was hard, and not her first choice. It only made him more determined to assist. “Hit me.”

“It’s about my ex, Henry. Zach’s father.” His fingers tightened a little on her arm, and he quickly forced himself to relax it again. But she’d noticed, and she rubbed the heel of her hand over his chest, soothing. “He’s not in our lives, either of us. Which is exactly how we like it, honestly. But sometimes, when he’s feeling the pinch of child support, he likes to threaten that he’ll takes us back to court or mediation to lower the amount. Usually giving some bullshit reasoning, having to do with taking him for more visitation to justify the amount he pays in support. It’s a threat, really, and not a new one. He’s been using it for years.”

“Does he see Zach often?”

“He hasn’t seen Zach in years. He took Zach for what was supposed to be a full day visit, and brought him back at lunchtime claiming there was nothing he could feed him and I’d set him up to fail. I’d given him a list of foods Zach could eat because we were still going through the allergy testing phase and he also was going through a picky phase.”

“As any kid tends to do,” Graham murmured.

“Exactly. He survived on bread, butter and a few other staples for about eighteen months back then because we were so limited on what we could add into his diet, and again by what he would actually eat. Henry accused me of making up a lot of his allergies—but thank God he didn’t try to test that theory out. And that was the end of him giving enough of a shit to come see his son.”

“Bastard,” was Graham’s quick and unequivocal judgment. “The guy is scum.”

“I’m not arguing. But he’s pulling it again, this whole ‘if I’m paying for being the kid’s dad, I should see him’ junk. Henry doesn’t want to see him. He just knows that I don’t want him to take Zach alone. He’s old enough to know what he should and shouldn’t eat—Zach, obviously, not Henry—but that doesn’t mean I want to trust him with an adult who has shown zero respect for his medical issues in the past, and uses his son’s feelings as a weapon.”