The house was finally quiet. A rare kind of quiet that only came after the last bedtime story was read, the last cup of water fetched, and the final, half-asleep “Mommy?” whispered from down the hall.
I lingered in the doorway of my youngest son's room for a moment, watching his chest rise and fall under the soft green glow of his nightlight. Peaceful. Unaware. I envied that more than I ever cared to admit. My phone buzzed against my palm before I even made it to the stairs. His name lit up the screen.
Ahmir Wolfe.
I stared at the screen for a beat before answering. “You’re persistent.”
“You’re still coming, right?” His voice slid through the speaker — low, sure, threaded with that lazy confidence that made women forget where they were standing. “Don’t tell me you’re bailing on me, Che
