Reckless (Mason Family #3) - Adriana Locke Page 0,41

a child, and it’s something I’ve always done. The only time I sleep on the sofa is if I’m extremely hungover.

And if I have a woman and a child in my bed, apparently.

If the spare room with a bed wasn’t covered in things I should’ve thrown away months ago, I could’ve slept there.

I groan.

The night was long and quiet. Jaxi retreated into herself after Rosie went to sleep, sitting at the kitchen table with a notepad and pen. We all three had dinner together and turned on a movie about a mermaid, but Rosie fell asleep again, and Jaxi laid down with her.

I haven’t seen either one of them since.

The sun barely peeks over the horizon as I get my bearings. I stretch my arms overhead and slowly get to my feet. My body is heavy but so is my head.

Sleep was hard to find last night. I just kept thinking about so many things over and over again. Jaxi’s shock at the fact that her sister died. The trepidation in Rosie’s face as she realized she was going home with us. The feeling of her little hand on mine as she began to warm up to us.

And the fact that I’m thinking about this whole situation, our trio, as us.

I run my hands down my face and groan.

What have I gotten myself into?

I’m not prepared for this whole thing. I’m Boone Mason, the proverbial bachelor. I thrive on low expectations and no responsibility.

I can’t even pay my security bill, which led to this whole damn thing.

Still, I’m not mad about it. I didn’t go to bed or wake up this morning feeling like I fucked all the way up. If I had, I wouldn’t be so worried about this. It would feel normal. Not feeling that way only makes me more concerned for my well-being.

I just can’t the picture of Rosie’s little face looking at me from the door of a police station. It was so wrong, so heartbreaking. No child should ever have to go through that.

“You are fucked. You are so fucked,” I sing softly as I walk into the kitchen. “Only you’re not fucked because fucking brings clarity, and you can’t think clearly.”

I whistle a beat that the words could go to like I know something about music and pop a pod into the coffee maker. I hit the brew button and start toward the fridge for some cream.

My attention is grabbed by a yellow legal pad sticking out from under a magazine on the table. Unable to contain my curiosity like a grown man should, I peer at the words written in neat handwriting.

To-Do:

Pediatrician / therapy?

Groceries

Job

Car ($5K max!)

Daycare?

Bed, clothes, toys (?)

Housing (where?)

Me clothes.

What about healthcare?

I lift the notepad and read through the list again. My heart crumbles.

This is what she’s worried about? Shit.

I’ve never once worried about any of that stuff. Even after spending the day with Rosie yesterday, most of that didn’t occur to me either. Sure, I knew we needed groceries because eating out with a child probably isn’t the healthiest, and I knew we would have to get Rosie some things to help her get situated.

But healthcare? A doctor? A car?

I drop the notepad to the table. I never thought about the fact that Jaxi doesn’t have a car. I didn’t even know that Rosie needed a car seat until Sergeant Bordeaux showed me how to set it up in my car. Thank God Kurt thought to send it with Rosie and Nettie’s things.

My life spins around me, taunting me with how little I know. How much of life I don’t take seriously.

Ignoring the click of the Keurig, I march back to the couch and retrieve my phone. I find the number and press call.

“Boone? What’s wrong, honey? It’s so early.”

“Mom?”

She laughs sleepily. “What other woman is answering your mother’s phone? Do I need to have a talk with your father?”

“Good point.”

Dad mumbles in the distance.

“Oh, be quiet, Rodney,” she says. “I’m getting up. Hang on, Boone.”

I pace back and forth until the coffee aroma drags me to the kitchen. I get my mug and add some creamer before Mom comes back on the line.

“Okay. I can talk now,” she says. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I think so.” I take a sip for sustenance. “I met a girl.”

“Okay …”

“Not like that. Well, I don’t think like that.” I reconsider. “No, I didn’t meet a girl like that, but I might like her—I do like her. She’s great. But that’s not