Chapter 31 No, I’m Good
Pete froze, eyes wide above Andrew’s fingers. He nodded vigorously. When Andrew lowered his hand, Pete whispered, “Sorry!”
Andrew opened his mouth to answer—
“Are we going to the museum without me?”
The voice came soft, sleepy, teasing. Amelia rolled over in one fluid motion, sheet sliding down to her waist. She propped herself on one elbow, hair falling in a pale curtain over one eye, the other sparkling with amusement. A slow, lazy smile curved her lips.
Andrew’s head turned. His own smile answered hers immediately— warm, intimate, a little sheepish. “Babe, you’re awake.”
“Yes.” She stretched like a cat, shoulders rolling, then propped her chin on her hand. “But the question remains— I hope we’re not leaving anyone out of the fun today?”
Andrew chuckled under his breath. “No, no, no. Didn’t know you’d want to. Didn’t wanna wake you up.”
“I’d love to.” Her smile widened, eyes crinkling. She looked past Andrew to Pete, who was still perched on his father’s lap like a triumphant general.
Reaching out, she brushed gentle fingertips along Pete’s flushed cheek, thumb tracing the soft curve. “Morning, bud. How did you sleep?”
“Was good!” Pete answered instantly, leaning into the touch like a flower toward sun.
“You didn’t even ask me how my night was,” Andrew cut in, mock-offended, brows raised.
Amelia’s gaze slid back to him. Her voice dropped, velvet and knowing. “Ohhh, we both know you had an excellent night.”
The look that passed between them was brief, private, electric. Andrew’s ears went faintly pink. He coughed once, clearing his throat.
Amelia’s laugh was soft, barely more than breath. She turned back to Pete. “I heard you’re going to the museum today. Can Aunt Amelia tag along?”
“Yes!” Pete’s answer was immediate, enthusiastic. He bounced again— l ighter this time, mindful of the noise.
“Thank you.” Amelia’s smile turned tender. She reached out, ruffled Pete’s hair gently. “Let’s go prepare, then.”
Andrew exhaled through his nose, fond and resigned. “Right. Everyone up.”
He swung his legs over the side of the bed first, bare feet meeting parquet. Amelia slid out after him, sleep shirt falling to mid-thigh. Pete scrambled off Andrew’s lap, landing on the floor with a soft thud, already vibrating with energy.
Andrew stood, stretched again— arms overhead, back arching— then glanced back at the bed, at the two people who made the morning feel suddenly, impossibly full.
“Shower first,” he said, voice low and decisive. “Then breakfast. Then museum.”
Pete grabbed his father’s hand with both of his own. “The good dinosaurs are gonna be gone if we’re late!”
Amelia laughed quietly, already moving toward the en-suite. “Then we better hurry, hadn’t we?”
Andrew squeezed Pete’s fingers once, firm and sure.
“Let’s move, people.”
The three of them spilled out of the bedroom together— Pete leading the charge, small feet pattering ahead, Andrew and Amelia trailing close behind, shoulders brushing, quiet smiles lingering as Paris waited beyond the windows.
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The bathroom door in Pete’s bedroom clicked shut behind Andrew and Pete with a soft, expensive thud. Morning light poured through the tall frosted window, turning the Carrara marble floor into pale, glowing slabs. Steam already clung faintly to the edges of the enormous frameless mirror above the double vanity. The air smelled of eucalyptus from the shower gel someone had left open on the counter the night before.
Andrew reached the vanity first, twisting both brushed-gold faucets until warm water hissed out in thick, steady streams. He squeezed a fat stripe of mint toothpaste onto his own brush, then held the tube out to Pete without looking.
“Open wide, champ.”
Pete tilted his head back like a baby bird, mouth already gaping. Andrew dabbed a careful pea-sized blob onto the boy’s brush, then handed it over. Pete immediately attacked his teeth with furious circular scrubbing, foam bubbling at the corners of his mouth, eyes squeezed shut in concentration.
Andrew caught his own reflection— hair still sleep-rumpled, faint red crease across one cheek from the pillow— and gave a small, private snort. He brushed in long, even strokes, foam gathering at the edge of his lip until he spat into the sink with a sharp, satisfied sound.
“Rinse,” he said, voice muffled around the toothbrush.
Pete spat dramatically, water splashing up the marble backsplash. He grinned at his father in the mirror, teeth gleaming white against mint-green foam. “My turn to pick the shower song!”
Andrew raised one brow, rinsing his mouth. “You get one song. No repeats from yesterday.”
Pete bounced on his toes while Andrew adjusted the rainfall showerhead. Hot water exploded downward in a wide, warm curtain. Pete stripped out the oversized T-shirt he was wearing alongside his pants in one impatient yank, kicking them into the corner. Andrew followed more slowly, folding his navy sleep pants over the heated towel rail.
They stepped under together. Pete immediately turned his face up into the spray, mouth open, laughing as water sheeted over his cheeks. Andrew worked shampoo into the boy’s dark curls— careful, firm fingers massaging the scalp— until suds slid down Pete’s narrow back in white rivers.
“Sing!” Pete demanded, eyes still closed against the shampoo.
Meanwhile, in the living room, Amelia padded barefoot across the wide expanse of herringbone oak. The space was vast— floor-to-ceiling windows draped in sheer ivory linen, a low cream sectional scattered with silk pillows, a marble coffee table holding yesterday’s half-read magazines and an empty wine glass. The landline sat on a slim console table beside a vase of fresh white tulips.
She lifted the receiver, pressed the single button marked Room Service. It rang once.
A bright, practiced feminine voice answered. “Good morning, Room Service. This is Angela speaking. How may I assist you?”
Amelia tucked a strand of ash-blonde hair behind her ear, voice soft but clear. “Hi, this is Miss Bridge in Apartment 117. I’d like to order breakfast, please.”
“Of course, Miss Bridge. May I take your order?”
“Yes, I’ll have the grilled chicken with mashed potatoes and a side of steamed vegetables.”
“Certainly. Would you like any drinks with that?”
“Yes, I’ll have a red wine. Do you have Merlot?”
“Yes, we do. Would you prefer a glass or a bottle?”
Amelia’s mouth curved slightly. “I’ll have a bottle.”
“Got it. Grilled chicken with mashed potatoes, steamed vegetables, and a bottle of Merlot. Would you like any dessert?”
“No, I’m good.”