Three years later. . .
“Stop it, Ash. You’ll ruin mommy’s cake,” I say, and he smacks the icing off the cake with the pastry brush, giggling naughtily.
Growling, I take the brush out of his hand and lift him off the counter. He makes a cooing sound, pleased that he has my attention again and bites my cheek softly as he murmurs, “Mama.”
Rolling my eyes, I chuckle. Ash is my life; my joy; my son. My little bundle of joy, I like to call him—and maybe trouble too. His jewel-toned eyes sparkle as he holds a lock of my hair and regards it with pure childlike fascination.
He always does that. Then he asks why he doesn’t have red hair. The conversation always goes downhill from there, because my answer to that question will always be, “You take after your father.”
It is one of the reasons w
