Fumbled (Playbook #2)(67)

I open the door, hoping my zombie-like appearance doesn’t scare away the security people. “Oh . . . okay,” I say like I know what’s going on.

“Come on!” Ace yells, even though I am right behind him. “Wait until you see the doorbell!”

“The doorbell?”

What could be so special about a doorbell?





Twenty-eight




Doorbells can be really freaking fancy.

And TK has a lot of expendable income.

The first I know as fact, because the one attached to my modest, in-need-of-renovations home has a doorbell with more capabilities than my phone. And it’s the same doorbell twenty-two people on Forbes’s richest one hundred list have. No, really, that’s part of their pitch. And if I wasn’t sold by the security features already, that would’ve sold me for sure.

It’s also the same doorbell TK has, but that’s not nearly as impressive as Forbes.

The second I’m just assuming because I glanced at the bill for the security system when the guy put it on the kitchen table and there was a comma in the price. I would’ve objected, but there were already holes in most of my walls from the touchscreen alarm boxes scattered throughout my house and video cameras at different angles on the outside of my house.

It takes the security guys (and one girl) over an hour to point out all the features and test me on arming and disarming the system and practicing pushing the panic button in case of emergencies. By the time they finish, the Advil and water have kicked in and my hangover is nothing but a memory.

Praise Jesus.

“TK.” I grab his hand after he closes the front door behind the security team heading back to their vans. “You didn’t have to do this,” I start, and squeeze his hand in mine when he tries to interrupt me. “But I’m glad you did. I already feel safer and I really appreciate you doing this for us.”

His mouth goes tight and he pulls me into his chest. “I’ll do anything to keep you guys safe, Sparks.”

It’s a rare moment where TK is completely serious.

Then that annoying thing that’s been happening more and more often when I’m with him happens—something inside me settles. An ache I wasn’t aware I’ve been feeling for years disappears, leaving me lighter and happier than I thought was possible for me.

An ache I’m afraid will only multiply when this ends.

I don’t say anything.

Instead I wrap my arms around his stomach and hold on tight.

“Ew,” Ace says, ruining the moment with the efficiency and ease only nine-year-olds possess. “What are you guys doing?”

“Hugging.” I state the obvious.

Ace shakes his head and rolls his eyes, not at all amused by my answer.

“Do you feel left out?” I ask, unwrapping myself from TK.

“Mom . . . ,” Ace warns me.

“Is my Acey-Wacey feeling left out?” I start toward him, using the nickname I always used when he was little.

“Stop it, Mom.” Ace holds his hands in front of his chest, backing away from me.

“I can’t.” I lunge at him, wrapping my arms around him as tight as I can, and swing him around, peppering his face with kisses. “I need to hug my Acey-Wacey!”

“Mom!” he screeches, trying, but failing, not to laugh and sound delighted.

“I can’t stop!” I shout, letting my hands fall to his waist and squeeze his tickle spot. “I need hugs!”

“Make her stop!” Ace yells through the giggles he’s trying so hard to mask in anger. “Dad! Help!”

Nothing could make me stop tickling and being the annoying mom who has the audacity to kiss her kid.

Nothing, I thought, until I heard that one word.

Dad.

Holy shit.

My hands stop and all the strength drains from my arms. I look up at TK, who is staring, his eyes glazed over, his lips tipped up, at the back of Ace’s curl-covered head.

And it’s the most beautiful I’ve ever seen TK look.

Which is saying a lot.

Ace, unaware of how much saying that three-letter word means to TK, breaks free from my Jell-O arms, turns, and runs to TK’s side. “Let’s get her, Dad,” he says again.

I know I want to cry and I’m pretty sure TK does, too. But instead, he gives a quick shake of his head, bringing himself back to the moment, and the small smile he had changes into a mischievous one.

Now this look? I know it well.

“Don’t you dare,” I warn the twins in front of me wearing matching expressions.

“Don—” I can’t even finish the word before they both take off in my direction.

I turn and scream, but I only make it two steps before I’m upside down and slung over TK’s shoulder.

“Put me down!” I pound my fists against TK’s back a few times, but before I’m able to inflict much damage, I’m flying through the air until my back bounces off my throw pillow–lined couch.

“Get her!” Ace yells like a freaking war cry.

And TK, the big kid he is, doesn’t miss a beat.

“Noooo!” I flail my legs and arms and try to flip off the side of the couch.

And shocker.

I don’t get away.

TK grabs both of my wrists and pins them above my head and Ace, the freaking traitor, tickles my armpits.