Spiral Of Bliss: Adore Part 1

Adore.

A Spiral of Bliss Novel.

NINA LANE.

And suddenly you know... it's time to start something new and trust the magic of beginnings.

-Meister Eckhart.

PART I.

CHAPTER ONE.

OLIVIA.

It's an epic meltdown. A part the seas, lightning bolts from the sky, plague of locusts, peanut-b.u.t.ter-smeared meltdown. His face is red as a beet, drenched with tears, his fists clenched. He's alternating between pounding the floor with his feet to flopping over like a beached whale and howling.

I've tried everything. Food. Changing. Toys. Reasoning. TV. Cajoling. Music. Going outside. Coming inside. Checking his temperature. Books. A vain attempt at a nap. I gave him the wooden spoon I'd been using to stir chocolate frosting because... chocolate, but even that didn't work.

Nothing is working. My nerves are shot. I'm exhausted, and the house looks like it's been hit by a tornado. I haven't showered all day. I look at the clock, calculating I have about three hours to calm Nicholas down and coax him to sleep, get my gourmet dinner prepped, and somehow wrestle the house into tip-top shape. And make myself at least somewhat presentable.

"How about Thomas?" I suggest, quickly pulling up a video on my laptop.

Nicholas wails something incomprehensible and flounders around on the sunroom floor. A headache hammers at my skull. I turn the video toward him. He grabs the laptop from the coffee-table and sends it smas.h.i.+ng to the floor.

"Tuck!" he yells.

"I know. I have given you five trucks." I point to the garbage truck, Mack truck, and three dump trucks amidst the clutter of cars on the floor.

"Tuck!"

"I don't think you have any more trucks," I say desperately.

"Fed!"

Fed. Fed what? Federal? Does he have an FBI truck? Does such a thing even exist? But if it did, what two-year-old knows that Fed refers to the FBI? Maybe he means something else, like red?

I rummage through the half-empty toy box and find a red bulldozer, which I hold up.

"This?" I ask.

"No!" Nicholas unleashes an ear-splitting scream.

"Are you thirsty?" I ask, deciding to change tactics even though I've asked him that question about a dozen times already. I grab his sippy cup of orange juice from the table and hand it to him. "Juice!"

For a second, his sobs decrease in volume. I almost hold my breath with hope as he grabs the cup from my hand. He throws it on the ground. Orange juice sprays all over the tile and splashes onto my sweatpants.

"No-spill" cup, my freaking a.s.s.

I grit my teeth, clinging to what little patience I have left. My lack of sleep last night, thanks to Nicholas's penchant for flailing around when he sleeps in our bed, is yanking out the final threads of my frayed sanity.

Badly needing a break, I grab Nicholas and get him into the playpen, where he can at least continue his meltdown without whacking his head against a hard surface.

I set the laptop back on the table, mop up the juice with a few napkins, then go into the kitchen and silently pray my darling, holy terror of a son will wear himself out and fall asleep. With his dark hair and thick-lashed eyes, he's adorable when he's asleep.

Now? Not so much.

I scribble "Buy orange juice" on a Post-it and stick it to the refrigerator along with all the other reminders of stuff I need to buy and do.

I grab a spatula and smear chocolate frosting over the lumpy, lopsided cake sitting on the central island. The stupid thing looks nothing like the elaborate, raspberry-chocolate layer cake on my Pinterest board, the one I thought would be "easy enough" to recreate.

I glance at the clock, wondering if I have time to run to the bakery. Then again, the last thing I need is to haul a screaming toddler into a bakery to buy a chocolate cake. We'd barely made it out of the grocery store without being disintegrated by the disapproving, death-ray stares of older women who apparently raised perfect, well-behaved angels.

Nicholas lets out a yell that sounds like he's being tortured. My heart plummets. I drop the spatula and run into the sunroom, where he is flailing against the mesh sides of the playpen.

"Nicholas, what?"

My headache intensifies, nails driving into my skull. I lean over to lift him out of the playpen. He swings a fist, catching my front teeth in a punch.

Pain radiates over my jaw. Tears spring to my eyes. I sink to the floor as he wiggles out of my grip and flops next to me with another screech of indignation.

"Ah, my beloved family."

Dean's deep voice washes over Nicholas's wailing. I jerk my head up in surprise to find him standing in the kitchen doorway, his briefcase in hand. Aside from looking travel-rumpled, he's as gorgeous as ever, his thick dark hair disheveled and his tall, muscular body clad in an open wool peacoat over his standard travel clothes of worn jeans and a forest-green rugby s.h.i.+rt.

He takes in the scene before him-the screaming child, the sunroom strewn with books and toys, the pile of dirty dishes and sippy cups in the sink, the disaster of a kitchen with cake ingredients and messy mixing bowls scattered over the counter.

Not to mention his wife collapsed on the floor in old sweatpants stained with spaghetti sauce and orange juice, her unwashed hair limp and tangled, and her torn T-s.h.i.+rt stinking of sour milk.

Dean smiles at me. "Hey, beauty."

I burst into tears.

He sets his briefcase down and comes toward us, one hand reaching for Nicholas and the other for me. Nicholas, oblivious to his father's homecoming, grabs a plastic hammer and pounds it on the rug.

I fall against the solid wall of Dean's body and give in to sobbing for a minute before pulling myself together for what feels like the hundredth time that day. I wipe my wet face and runny nose on his s.h.i.+rt and ease back to look at him.

"W-what are you doing home so early?" I hiccup. "You were supposed to be home at eight."

"There was room on an earlier flight, so I grabbed a seat," he says, pus.h.i.+ng my hair away from my sweaty forehead. "Didn't you get my text?"

"Do I look like I got your text?" I retort, suddenly annoyed with both him and American Airlines for s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up my plan to welcome my husband home after two weeks away.

"No," Dean admits reflectively, sliding his gaze over me. "You do not."

He pushes to his feet and reaches for Nicholas, who evades his grasp and toddles over to the bas.e.m.e.nt door.

"Tuck!" Nicholas screams. "Fed!"

"Hold on." Dean hauls our son into his arms and sets him in the playpen, then goes down into the unfinished bas.e.m.e.nt. He returns with a Lego Duplo-block fire truck and puts it in front of Nicholas.

And, like turning off a water faucet, Nicholas stops wailing.

My ears are still ringing, so for a moment the silence is deafening. Nicholas lets out a few lingering sobs and gulps. Dean grabs a napkin from the table and wipes Nicholas's face and nose, lifting him out of the playpen and onto the sunroom floor. Nicholas hugs the fire truck like it's a long-lost friend.

Which I suppose it is.

"Oh my G.o.d." I groan and bury my face in my hands. "Are you freaking kidding me?"

"That's Fred," Dean says helpfully. "Didn't you know that?"

I take my hands away from my face to stare at him. "Do I look like I know that?"

"No," he admits.

"Why would I know our son has a fire truck named Fred? And moreover, why the h.e.l.l is Fred in the bas.e.m.e.nt rather than the toy box where he belongs? I have spent all day dragging your son's toys out, trying to get him to stop wailing like a banshee, and now I find out there are more toys in the bas.e.m.e.nt?"

Dean scratches his head. "Just a few. I put them there for safekeeping when Nicholas was into throwing things down the stairs. He broke apart a fis.h.i.+ng boat and had a tantrum, so I've been trying to keep the Lego Duplo sets intact."

"And you couldn't have told me?"

He shrugs. "I thought I did."

A wave of frustration almost makes me start crying again. With a grunt, I push to my feet and go into the kitchen. Nicholas rolls the truck on the floor and makes a high-pitched siren noise that sounds like the sweetest lullaby ever compared to his previous screaming.

I grab the spatula and slap frosting on the cake like I'm flogging it. Dean comes up behind me.

"I missed you," he remarks.

I growl in response.

"I love you," he adds.

Another growl rumbles in my throat. I turn and smack Dean's chest with the spatula, leaving a smear of chocolate on his s.h.i.+rt.

"You were supposed to be home at eight," I repeat accusingly. "I had it all planned out. Nicholas was going to be sleeping peacefully, I'd be showered and all prettied up with lingerie on under my dress, waiting for you with a gla.s.s of scotch and a delicious gourmet dinner, followed by homemade chocolate cake. Afterward, I was planning to take you upstairs and actually get s.e.xy.

"However, since you were inconsiderate enough to come home three hours early, you get nothing." I wave the spatula in the air and turn back to the cake. "Nothing!"

"Oh, I've got something." Dean slides his hands around my waist and pushes his groin up against my bottom. "I've got the hottest, s.e.xiest, most perfect wife in the universe."

"Hah. Good luck with that."

"Mmm." Dean pushes my hair away from my nape and kisses the back of my neck. "You smell like Spaghetti Os with meatb.a.l.l.s. My favorite."

"Again..." I push my hips backward in a half-hearted attempt to shove him away, but the movement only presses my a.s.s closer against him. "Good luck."

"I don't need any more luck." Dean presses his lips in a line over the ridge of my collarbone. "I've already got you."

Okay, so that wasn't bad. He continues pressing little kisses over my neck and shoulder, sending tingles raining down my spine. I lick a drop of frosting off my finger and make him work for a few more minutes before turning in his arms to face him. The heat of his body flows into me, soothing the tight anger and frustration that have been gripping me all day long.

"I'm still mad," I warn him, holding up the spatula.

His eyes warm as he tracks his gaze over my face.

"You're so pretty," he says.

"Sure. You should have seen what I was planning to look like when you got home," I grumble. "It would have been a transformation like Cinderella at the ball, except s.e.xy."

"You don't need a transformation to be s.e.xy," Dean remarks. "But I'd be happy to provide you with a couple of b.a.l.l.s."

That brings a chuckle out of me, despite my fatigue over the full-time care of our son. A few weeks ago, my good friend and part-time nanny Marianne moved out of town to be closer to her daughter and grandchildren. I hadn't realized how much I'd relied on her help with Nicholas until she was gone. And then with Dean's work taking him out of town more often than I'd like...

He licks frosting off the spatula I'm still holding before putting his hands on my hips and pulling me closer.

"Give me a kiss, beauty," he says.

"I haven't even brushed my teeth today."

"I don't care." He rubs his lips against mine. "I haven't kissed my wife in two weeks. No way am I waiting a second longer. Not to mention, you taste like chocolate."

With that, he tugs me against him and settles his mouth securely over mine. A m.u.f.fled groan of pleasure escapes me involuntarily.

Oh, G.o.d, it's so good to have him home, despite the utter upheaval of my careful plans. I wind my arms around his waist and let myself fall into the familiar, compelling warmth of his kiss.

Arousal tingles through me like little bells, both surprising and welcoming. Over the past six months, Nicholas's launch into the terrible twos, complete with constant waking during the night, intense clinginess, and a mutinous refusal to learn potty-training, has sapped my energy right along with my s.e.x drive.

Dean lifts his hands to the sides of my neck, tilting my head to just the right angle as he urges my lips apart. A rumble of pleasure echoes in his chest. Our bodies fit together seamlessly, the pressure of his hard muscles so good against my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I slip my hands under his s.h.i.+rt and stroke the warm tautness of his lower back.

"Fed! Wee wee wee!"

Nicholas's siren noise breaks me and Dean apart. We both turn to see our son crawling into the kitchen, pus.h.i.+ng Fred the Fire Truck.

"Daddy!" Nicholas yells, as if just realizing Dean is home again.

"Hey, buddy." Dean releases me to crouch and hold out his arms so Nicholas can barrel into them. They exchange a tight hug.