Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77353 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77353 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
My feet hurt, my head is pounding, I’m hungry, I need to catch up on my world history reading, and the only thing keeping me going at this point is knowing I’m providing for my son—oh, and coffee. That helps, too.
“Ready?” Kasey asks, tipping his head toward the door.
I nod and follow behind him.
“Where are you parked?” He scans the lot like he’ll magically know which car is mine.
“The silver Taurus.”
He glances back at me, his brows furrowed. “Huh.”
“What?” I lengthen my stride so that I’m walking next to him.
“Just not what I pegged you for.”
“Right, well.” We stop at the bumper, and he waits while I slide my key into the door to unlock it. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” He waits for me to situate myself behind the wheel before heading back for the building.
The drive to my apartment complex passes in a blur of headlights. Thankfully, my designated parking spot is open—sometimes when it’s this late, people assume you’re gone for the night and park wherever they can.
I cut the engine, take a deep breath, and pull my key from the ignition, slipping it between my index and middle fingers. I may not live in the worst part of town, but it’s definitely not good either.
Mrs. Norwood—my downstairs neighbor and babysitter—opens her front door before I even raise my hand to knock. She clucks her tongue as she looks me up and down. “You’re late.”
“Am I?” I ask, pulling my phone from my bag to check the time. Only by a minute. “I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head. “Time’s money. You know the drill.”
“But—”
“No buts. I charge a late fee. You were late. Pay up.”
Tears sting my eyes as I pull my wallet from my bag. My hands shake as I peel off four twenties—three to cover my shift and one for the late fee.
As a single mom, every penny counts. That extra twenty could have gone to groceries or gas or rent. But I can’t fault Mrs. Norwood, either. She’s a widow living entirely off her late husband’s pension, and while our situations aren’t the same, we have one thing in common—we’re both barely scraping by.
She pockets the money and then opens the door wide. “He’s asleep on the couch.”
“Thanks.” I slide past her into the small apartment, grabbing Maverick’s backpack from the coffee table before leaning down and scooping his sleeping form into my arms.
He stirs ever so slightly. “Mama?”
“Yes, baby.”
“Missed you.” He snuggles into me, pressing his sticky face into the crook of my neck, immediately falling back asleep.
“You working on Friday?” Mrs. Norwood asks, like she doesn’t know my schedule.
I nod as I step back into the breezeway connecting the apartments.
“Figured. I can’t keep him that night. Got plans.”
Something inside of me deflates. Can’t I ever catch a break? “Thanks for letting me know.”
I turn and head up the stairs toward my apartment.
Between my bag, Maverick’s bag, my keys, and my sleeping boy, it’s a struggle to get up without dropping something or waking him.
The overhead light being out does little to help matters.
“Dammit,” I mutter as I try to fish my phone back out of my bag.
I keep my movements small and soft, doing my best to make sure Maverick stays asleep. I swear, it feels like my fingers brush everything except my phone.
“Found it!” I can’t quite reach the sensor to unlock it, but the light from the screen’s just enough to see to slide my key into the deadbolt.
Inside my apartment, I place Maverick down onto our bed and hang both of our bags on the hooks by the door before taking a quick shower and donning my favorite sleep shirt—one from Mav’s dad.
My little man doesn’t even stir when I crawl into bed next to him, and before I know it, I’m fast asleep with him curled into my side.
Like always, Maverick wakes me up long before my alarm ever has a chance to go off. The kid’s been an early riser since day one; another trait from his father, because I would gladly sleep until noon if given the chance.
“I’m hungry.” He pokes my belly.
“Are you?” I poke his back, and as if to really nail his point home, it growls.
“Mmhmm.” He nods. “Starving.”
I check the time—it’s barely six o’clock. “What sounds good?”
His hazel eyes twinkle. “Pamcakes, Mama!”
“Pamcakes, huh? Are you sure you don’t want pancakes?”
“No.” He looks at me like I’m crazy. “Pamcakes. Like Ms. Pam at the diner makes.”
I can’t help but smile. The kid’s cute, and he knows it. “Pamcakes it is.”
“With chocolate chips?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I tell him, knowing full well we don’t have any chocolate chips. “Why don’t you go brush your teeth?”
“Do I have to?”
“Definitely.”
He pouts but toddles off to do as I asked.
In the kitchen, I pull a mixing bowl out of the dishwasher, and then the dry ingredients down from the cabinet that serves as our pantry. But when I open the fridge to grab the milk and eggs, I realize the milk is sour and we’re out of eggs.