Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79800 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79800 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Knox nods, leaving it at that, and I help him put away the groceries before he rushes upstairs to nap with his wife.
In the living room, I peek into the bassinet, and Alexander is sleeping peacefully. Not able to resist, I pull out my phone and snap a picture. He stirs a little, and what kind of uncle would I be if I didn’t spoil him? Gently, I lift him from his bassinet, grab a soft blue blanket, and sit on the couch. I rest Alexander against my shoulder, cover him with the blanket, and place my hand on his back to secure him. His breath shudders, as does his little body, before he relaxes into me.
My heart swells for this little guy, just as it does with Coral and Camden. My nieces and nephews are everything. I’ve always wanted kids. I wanted to create a family of my own, since I didn’t have one. In a way, I guess I’ve done that. I’ve surrounded myself with people who made me an uncle out of love, not blood, and my four best friends, my brothers by choice, gave me four incredible sisters.
I don’t know what life has in store for me, but I’m pretty sure the fun uncle is as close as I’ll ever get to being a dad, and I’ve accepted that. Knox, Landry, Reid, and Baker have shown me that people do stay. Sure, any one of us could get traded tomorrow, but I honestly feel in my soul we’d all still be as close as we are now. Outside of Coach Pruitt and his wife, Hope, they’re the first to choose me. To stay for me, so Uncle Foster is a title I’ll wear with pride, and I have no doubt our family will be growing over the next few years.
Envy slices through me, but I push it back. Life has taught me to be grateful for what I have, and this little man sleeping in my arms is just another reminder of that. I know that, but there is still a part of me that’s mourning the life I’d planned, the one I thought I was seconds away from having, but blew up in my face.
Being Uncle Foster hurts a hell of a lot less than putting my heart on the line for a woman to stomp all over it. Zero out of ten: Do not recommend.
Chapter Four
Eden
* * *
Stepping into the house, the smell of cinnamon fills the air. I kick off my shoes and drop my bag by the door as I make my way to the kitchen. “Good morning, Mr. Vaughn.” I smile. Last Monday, I thought I would show up at his condo and receive my walking papers. Instead, he made me breakfast. He did it again on Wednesday and Friday, so I have a pretty good idea what will be waiting for me today.
“Foster,” he says, his voice laced with sleep.
“Foster.” I nod. He’s told me to call him Foster every shift, but I’m trying to keep some distance between us. Mainly because he’s drop-dead gorgeous, and he’s being kind to me. I don’t know what he’s going to say today, but I do have a protein bar in my bag, just in case he changes things up this week. Maybe last week was him showing me he was sorry for being grouchy with me on my first day here.
“Sit. Coffee?” he asks.
“Yes, please. I can get it,” I tell him.
“Nope.” He slides a plate with a massive cinnamon roll on it in front of me. “I’ve got it.” He smiles, and I melt into the stool I’m perched on.
You see, this is why I call him Mr. Vaughn. I need the separation, because he’s damn sexy with his messy bed head and sleepy smile he’s been offering me first thing every morning when I arrive. I need to remember that he’s just being nice to me. That’s all this is.
“These smell great. Thank you, Foster,” I say softly as he places a cup of coffee in front of each of our plates, then slides onto the stool next to mine.
“Thanks. I opened the can all on my own.” He chuckles. “Coach and his wife used to make homemade cinnamon rolls on Sunday mornings. Sometimes I would help them. It’s been a long time since I’ve had them. I’m sure I could remember. If not, I’m sure they’d give me the recipe.”
“Your coach? As in the Rampage coach?” I ask. He must be really close with his players if he’s inviting them over for homemade cinnamon rolls on Sundays. Not only that, but I can’t imagine how many they’d have to make to feed the team. Maybe they split it up or something.
“No, uh, my high school coach. Coach Pruitt and his wife took me in my sophomore year of high school,” he says, his voice growing quiet. “My foster family got into some trouble—drugs—and I was headed back to the children’s home if another family didn’t step up. Coach and his wife asked me to come and live with them.”