CHAPTER THREE

The clock's relentless ticking drills into my skull, and with every monotonous second passing, I can feel my blood simmering.

It's the kind of Monday that drags, and claws dig into the edge of sanity—all because Mr. Ettin decided to parade his ego around the meeting today.

Not to mention that bet.

There's no saying what possessed me to even agree without knowing the full terms aside from my own stupid pride, but as long as I win, everything else will be immaterial.

Despite this reassuring thought, I groan. My co-worker, Sarah, pops her head into my office, giving me a concerned look.

"Hey, wanna grab sushi with us for lunch?"

She means the rest of the floor, but I shake my head.

I've got far too many deadlines along with Mr. Ettin's dare to worry about.

There's no way I'm going to lose, even if it means working through lunch.

Sarah hums, the closest she dares to offer me her sympathy before backing out and leaving me to my own misery.

Time drones on when I hear someone clear their throat.

I peek through my office door, hoping it's a delivery guy with extra food on the wrong floor.

It's not, and because I have the world's worst luck, it's Mr. Ettin, striding past the empty aisles of cubicles toward me.

Every click of Mr. Ettin's polished shoes across the wooden floor is a personal affront, a reminder of the pecking order and where I stand as a no one.

Jesus, Wyn, dramatic much?

"You're not eating?"

A frown mars Mr. Ettin's brow, as if he's genuinely worried about whether I've taken a lunch break or not.

"I already ate."

It's a lie, and we both know it. His brilliant magenta stare narrows while he debates whether to call me out on it or not.

To my relief, he doesn't. Instead, he does something far worse—he compliments me.

"Great work on the Henderson file, Wyn."

"Thanks," I mumble, turning to go back to my desk.

"Keep it up, and you might just win our little bet."

His words fester in my mind, mixing with the reminder that, no matter how hard I try, I find this man attractive.

But I don't let him see me sweat—can't let him see.

Sitting back down in my chair, I shoot him my signature fake smile.

For some unknown reason, it seems to drive him wild.

"I plan to win. Lucky for you, paint's on sale. You might want to take advantage of that now—stock up while you can, ya know?"

Mr. Ettin only smirks before retreating. An hour later, a woman knocks on my door jamb, pulling me from my thoughts.

"Delivery for a Wyn Archer."

"I didn't order—"

"It's from a Mr. Ettin."

Nodding, I take the bag, noting it's from my favorite sub shop down the road.

To my surprise, the sandwich has everything I love, right down to the sprinkle of black olives.

And for a moment, I wonder what it might be like to lose this bet.

At five o'clock sharp, I jump up and rush out of my office like my ass is on fire.

Mondays are my longest days, and by the end of them, I'm more than ready to leave.

The crisp, evening air hits my face, and I inhale deeply as I navigate the familiar route to my son's aftercare.

"Mom!"

The exuberant energy in that small voice is enough to lift some of the heaviness of the day from my shoulders.

Jake, my sun amidst the cloudy expanse of my life, waves as he rushes into my open arms.

His mop of dark curls and gap-toothed smile make everything right in my world.

"?hi?k?í! How's my little man?"

"I'm great! I found a spider in the boy's bathroom. Can I bring it home?"

"Maybe later. We're still feeding the frog you kept, remember?"

"But Kermit would love a friend!"

"I'm fairly certain that he might try to eat the spider."

"Ah, man. Ok, mom. Hey, did you bring snacks?"

His gaze is hopeful, searching my face for signs of the treats I sometimes smuggle from the break room.

"You know we're going home to eat dinner, but I suppose a couple peanut butter crackers won't hurt."

Jake whoops, like I've just told him the best news in the world as I fish the broken snack out of my purse.

Crumbles fall everywhere as he tears into the wrapper, and I take his hand to walk us to the sub.

Once we're on and seated, I ask Jake about his day.

Watching his face light up sparks a rare smile on mine.

His chestnut hair corkscrews into curls so unlike my own sleek, straight hair, but our eyes are the same, dark brown, flecked with gold.

We're nearly identical, although Jake's skin is a shade lighter than mine.

There's so much of me in him that it takes me back to my youth—back when I lived on the reservation.

For a fleeting moment, I let myself remember my cousins and the wild way we played among the trees, so free.

That was a lifetime ago when I was a different person.

"Is everything alright, Mom?"

My son's question draws me back to the present.

"Yep. I was just thinking about when I was little, like you."

I run my fingers through his unruly curls, mentally making a note to get him a haircut soon. Jake cocks his head, assessing me.

"Do you ever wanna go back and visit your home?"

Jake knows we're Lakota and that I grew up on a reservation.

What he doesn't know is that I'm no longer welcome there.

"Sometimes."

"Why don't we go, then?"

"It's not that simple, ?hi?k?í, I'm sorry."

"Grown-ups make everything difficult, huh?"

I snort. "Out of the mouth of babes."

"Ew, I'm not a babe. I'm almost seven!"

"Yes, you are. We're going to have a big party this year."

"Really? With balloons and friends?"

My heart squeezes because for the first time, I should be able to afford exactly what my son wants—and deserves.

"You betcha."

He hugs me, snuggling into my side. "You're the best mom ever."

Fuck, this kid guts me.

"And you're the best son."

"Hey, wanna play the guessing game?!"

"Sure. You go."

"I'm thinking of something... pink!"

Mr. Ettin's eyes.

"A pig?"

Jake giggles. "No—it's your shirt, Mom!"

For a fleeting moment, everything is perfect, and my heart swells with emotion as I drink in my son's happiness.

If only I could bottle it up for all the rainy days at work.

"You're frowning again."

"No, I'm not."

"Yeah huh, your lips are curved way down like this."

He makes the most ridiculous sad face I've ever seen, and I can't help but chuckle at his antics.

"There, now I'm laughing, happy?"

"Yes. Why were you frowning?"

"I was thinking about work."

"If it makes you unhappy, why do you stay?"

"It doesn't. I really like my job. It's just…"

"Your boss?"

Jake's dark gaze probes mine, way too piercing for my liking.

"Something like that. It's my turn for the guessing game. I'm thinking of something big and fluffy."

"Clouds?"

"Nope."

"Ooo, pillows!"

"Try again."

"Um, um, I don't know!"

"Giant marshmallows, duh!"

My son giggles some more. "You're so silly, Mom. Was Dad silly, too?"

The question comes completely out of left field and damn near knocks the breath out of my lungs as I scramble for a response.

"Yeah…he was silly, too."

Internally, panic flares hot and sharp as if I've been caught in a lie.

My stomach clenches, and bile rises to the back of my throat.

"Is that why I'm so silly?"

I force a smile to my lips. "Yep, the silliest. What do you want for dinner?"

It's the most blatant change of subject in the history of awkward conversations, but my sweet, innocent kiddo doesn't notice.

"Hotdogs and macaroni."

"What vegetable do you want on the side of this nutritious meal?"

"Gummy carrots!"

"Not a real vegetable."

Jake pouts. "Fine. Real carrots—with ranch!"

The sub pulls up to our stop and we get out while I think about what's in my fridge.

At the same time, my brain screams at me that it doesn't matter if we don't have milk for the macaroni.

We have bigger problems.

Dodging ‘the talk' with Jake about his dad is like playing the world's worst game of hide and seek—sooner or later, he'll figure out the truth.

I'm clueless about what to say to him or how to explain.

All I know is I'm terrified that my son will hate me for it.

The thought keeps me up at night, jumbling my stomach into a knot.

When Jake and I step inside our small apartment, he rushes to the table, knowing that the sooner he finishes his homework, the quicker he can go play with his toys.

Not bothering to change clothes from work, I get the water boiling on the stove while fishing out the rest of the ingredients for our dinner.

"Can I help stir?"

"Of course."

Together, we drain the pasta and mix in the cheese powder.

Jake grins the entire time, and I wish I enjoyed cooking as much as he does.

Once everything is ready, I set the table. My son gobbles it up like he hasn't eaten in days, and I stare at him, my heart in my eyes.

It's moments like these that are the glue holding my fragmented world together.

He finishes his food long before me, bounding off to play while I clean the kitchen.

The mundane task carries the weight of the world after working all day, and it's only seven.

"Jacob, bathtime!"

He fusses a little, but gets in. When he's finished and dressed in pajamas, I tuck my baby boy in bed before pulling out the book I've been reading him.

It's about all kinds of different Native American shapeshifters and tricksters from the different tribes, but my favorites tales are, of course, the Lakota ones.

They remind me of the stories u??í used to tell me.

Jake's face glows in the soft lamplight as I make silly voices for each new character, eliciting delighted giggles from him as I read on.

As the chapter winds to an end, my son's eyes grow heavy.

I lean down to brush a tender kiss across his forehead as he drifts off.

"Night, Mom. Love you."

"Sweet dreams, ?hi?k?í."

I watch the rise and fall of Jake's chest, a peaceful balm to my own restless worry, but the feeling quickly fades when I'm alone in my room.

My clothes slip to the floor with a soft rustle as I climb into bed and slide under the cool, linen sheets.

No matter how hard I try, my mind races, a carousel of unease and weariness that refuses to slow, and at the center is my boss with his stupid bet.

I close my eyes and will my thoughts to still, but they refuse.

The darkness behind my lids takes the shape of Ettin's lips curled into the familiar smug smirk, and I want to scream.

Even in the quiet sanctuary of my room, I can't escape the man.

His presence lingers, a specter feasting on my misery.

"Go away!" I whisper into my pillow, the words meant for both my boss as well as the intrusive thoughts he inspires.

Still they cling to the edges of my consciousness, and in my dreams, the smirking face of Mr. Ettin morphs and changes, blurring around the edges, mocking me from the shadows.

Promising me a kiss that I'll never admit that I want.