Chapter One

For most people on this planet, sunshine in the morning is a welcome occasion each day. However, I hardly consider it a blessing when I rarely get to enjoy the typical bouts of solitude others do. Blinded by the ultraviolet curse peering through our window, I awake to spot my doting Papa Bear's amber irises. Unlike the incessant assault shining down upon me, catching a glimpse of my husband's generous spirit is all too cherished.

All this to say is especially for a guy like me, who rarely sleeps next to Dr. Brogan Baxter's warm body on the weeks I spend at home. This morning in particular is special for me and my husband. Raising my arm with a yawn, I lasso around his neck like a sloth to a tree branch.

"Good morning, Papa Bear," I whisper low, tracing my finger around Brogan's salted eyebrows.

My love smiles, flashing his award-winning chompers seen on billboards and bus benches in the city over. He doesn't have to speak a word, as I already know what he's thinking. Unfortunately for him, there's little time this morning for a quickie. However, I accept his embrace as he buries his head into my bare chest, having worked up a sweat from the long summer night.

His tongue, perhaps, could be the best morning greeting I'd ever be gifted in this entire world. Licking the circumference of my nipples, Brogan's hand slides beneath our comforter for a warmer, most excited southern region. God damn it, I missed this. My lips quiver, trying hard not to jut a drop of pre-cum. But fuck, I returned home from a long shoot in Milan around three this morning. So I can respect his need for a taste of my love after two weeks away.

A moan swims from my lips as his palm grazes the tip of my cock with fervor. "Mmmmmm."

Nothing else in this world feels quite like his delicate touch. And I'd be remiss if I didn't admit that I missed him just as much as I know he's missed me. Telephone and Skype calls only go so far, to reach the center of a person's heart.

"Good morning to you, too, love," Brogan mutters, furling a brow of anticipation.

Hesitant to relent my snakelike clutch, an inevitable yawn forces me to cover it politely. As contagious as the flu, Brogan returns the sentiment in kind.

Stifling a deeper yawn than mine, he yammers with broken words. "You think I should wrestle up a couple of waffles?"

I haven't eaten since my layover yesterday evening at DFW airport when I attempted to snarf a mediocre tuna sandwich. Of course, I'm fucking famished.

"Yes, pleeassseee," I whine playfully, nipping at his bottom lip for another kiss.

His lips, however, are reminiscent of the salty-rimmed margarita I downed after the two bites of tuna.

I pull away from his head briefly, taking stock of his exhaustion. "But your lips will always taste better than any food in the world," I admit, leaning back in for a deeper kiss.

We can only savor a moment together on our memory foam mattress before the sound of tiny bare footsteps interrupts us. The cadence of footfalls against our cherry wood flooring resembles the pivotal moment in "Jaws." Only this story has a much happier ending.

"Shhhhh—" Brogan hisses playfully, his forefinger landing against my lips. "Lil's awake, so I guess it's breakfast time now for sure."

A grin warms my face, meanwhile nipping at Brogan's finger, then glancing towards the little princess donning a turquoise nightgown through the entryway.

Brogan winces. "Ouch, what was that for?"

"Maxie, Maxie," Lily screams, scampering enthusiastically with open arms. "I miss you so much, Maxie."

How could I not take that so delicately? I smile widely, feeling sated enough to witness a sparkle in her eyes. I've never really felt like a father to Lily, since Brogan is considerably older than I am. It just feels slightly weird to call her a daughter in public.

However, back in 2010, my doting Papa Bear in his infinite charm convinced me to start a family with him. Despite my feeble attempts to settle for a puppy, finding a surrogate began the next chapter in our lives. And it took our marriage to a whole new level altogether. I'd already had reservations about raising a child, especially since I was about to become swamped with overseas photoshoots. However, I caved in at the notion that Brogan would have something else to take care of in my absence. This paramount condition for nurturing and fixing others is at the crux of my lover's essence.

A comforting guise warms over Brogan's visage. He must really know how special it is that Lily has taken so kindly to me as an added parental figure—even if I'm probably the most unskilled guardian there is. Brogan did diaper duty while I was invariably oceans apart from him. All that's to say, I just know he enjoys the connection I have with her as some form of ‘uncle.'

Wearing a pair of square eyeglasses, he slips away from his side of the bed. "Time for breakfast, Flower," he insists lovingly, pointing to the doorway.

‘Flower' has been her nickname since birth. Brogan felt it was only appropriate to associate this association, given that he sees her as a precious, long-stemmed masterpiece sprouted from the Earth below.

Lily releases her grasp from my arm, appearing excited. "You make us Mickey cakes, plea—please?"

I smile wider than the convergence of the Colorado and Gunnison rivers. "I think we can handle that, sweetheart," I reply, patting her on the crown of her head.

Brogan pipes up with his usual cheer. "Sure, we can," he says. "Anything for my sweet little flower," he obliges, pacing towards the doorway with a look in our direction. "Well, come on, Mickey cakes wait for no princess."

Downstairs in the kitchen, Lily hunches over on a barstool with both palms pressing into her chin with a look of anticipation. She watches Brogan with admiration as he meticulously pours the batter onto a griddle, salivating like a tiger hunting his prey. Meanwhile, I pre-heat our waffle iron. There are many things Brogan is superior at, and I, for one, enjoy his waffles.

The iPhone beside us intermittently buzzes on the surface of the stainless steel kitchen island. When I reach over to grab it, I see his two new message notifications on the lock screen.

"Looks like you have a couple of texts waiting," I announce.

He nods with a rancorous sigh. "It's probably just the hospital," he replies, both eyes rolling straight back. "Someone reminding me about our M&M presentation this afternoon—and on a damn Sunday, no less," he winces, flipping the pancake.

My umpteenth yawn casually falls from my lips. "Yeah, but isn't it important?" I respond. "I have a few things to wrap up from my shoot in Venice."

Brogan scratches his temple. "I'd love to just stay home with my two favorite people," he admits, appearing annoyed. He expresses his strong dislike for these presentations and it seems like he's about to go on a long rant. "How we can be better doctors, and blah blah, I've been in the heart business long enough to know what it takes to keep their tickers going—and I don't need to be lectured about what I could've done differently."

As I glance back over at Lily, she's smiling with absolutely no clue what adult things we're discussing. Sometimes I wished I could go back to her age. So carefree and innocent, when the world handed me everything I'd ever require from life. Must be nice, little munchkin. Stay young as long as you can.

Brogan drones on, adding the final touches to Lily's pancake. "Sometimes bad things just happen to good people and I am most certainly not God—there're so many things that are simply out of my capable hands," he adds breathlessly.

Placing his iPhone back on the counter, I reach around my lover's waist. A short gale of warm air collides with the weathered skin of Brogan's neck.

"You'll be done with that meeting sooner than you can say Philadelphia cream cheese," I encourage the gripey bastard.

I love him like the Dickens. But sometimes he needs to chill the fuck out, or else he's gonna have a coronary himself.

"These meetings are par for the course, right?" I add, sneaking a kiss to emphasize my love.

He moans, lowering his left hand to my arm. "Yes, I'll go," he bites back with a wink. "But make sure if I'm not home by four, that Lily Bean gets to her COA peer class."

As a parent to a daughter on the autism spectrum, Brogan always insists Lily engage in the best therapeutic opportunities to enhance her interpersonal skills. Without the therapist's recommendation, my Papa Bear would be clueless about how she could improve her sociability.

I take a deep gander into Brogan's impassioned gaze while flipping the waffle iron. "Yes, love," I assure him. "I have that covered and we won't even be a minute late—promise."

Parenthood does not come easily to me. I'm always thinking of how ill-equipped and inept I am to be responsible for another human being who requires more help than a neurotypical child. Yet, throughout Lily's growth, so have my parenting skills. All that's to say even if I'm out of town regularly. I know the importance of her routines and staying on track with the Children of Autism peer classes.

Brogan contends with his usual morning froggy throat. "Love, would you get the whipped cream out of the fridge?"

My eyebrow curiously furls to the ceiling. "Only if I get to have fun with it."

He rolls his eyes. "It's for her pancake, you stud," he chuckles.

As I reach for the can of ReddiWhip, my nose is quick to detect the scent of a burnt waffle on the counter. "Shoot—I think that one's beyond done."

Brogan twists around to offer Lily a giant, mischievous grin. "Then I guess that's the one he's eating, right?"

Lily can't help but giggle, causing her hands to flutter about. Her eyes grow ravenous as the sound of her plate clinking with the surface reverberates around the kitchen. I'm not entirely sure what it is about the shape of a pancake, or how it affects the taste any. But I'm in awe of Brogan's dedication to seeing the little princess take delight in the simplest things.

With a wide grin on her face, whipped cream already covers her nose. "Daddy makes the best Mickey cakes."

"Enjoy it, my Flower," Brogan mutters, kissing her forehead.

Meanwhile, he and I find our usual seats at the island on each side of Lily. We enjoy a fresh pot of coffee, combined with the taste of a maple-doused, charred waffle. The atmosphere of our lush Denver home couldn't be any more peaceful. For a gorgeous Sunday morning, I couldn't ask for anything more from the universe. I'm sure even though Brogan has to endure a less-than-stellar conference, he's most happy knowing that our three warm bodies are in the same room together for a change.

As noon progresses, I find myself propped up in front of two massive computer monitors. It takes an eagle eye to catch these little details, ensuring that every spread is consistent and flawless. I've been working with Plaid & Paisley Magazine for a few years now, and I'd sooner gnaw off an arm than to contend with the likes of an Editor-in-Chief like Miranda Shaefer. However, time being of the essence, I must finish these edits quickly if I have any hopes of getting Lily Bean to her group on time. And as promised.

I could spend hours admiring my work, glancing over the perfect frame of a slender Italian guy wearing the upcoming season's fresh plaid garb. But it's not getting any earlier in the day, and like hell will I disappoint my Papa Bear by dashing Lily across Denver at the last possible minute.

No sooner do I save my progress to prepare an email for the layout department when I hear the whoosh of a toilet down the hallway. And in a matter of seconds, Lily patters past my office door as I chug the last half of my soda.

"Are you all right, sweetie?" I call out, witnessing her peeking around the doorframe with a grin.

"Yep, just went potty," she affirms so casually, like a big girl.

My head bows, eyeing her circumspectly. "Did you wash your hands?" I ask, knowing full well the time from flush to seeing her zipping by. It's become an oversight.

She grimaces, raising a palm to her forehead. "Oh, forgot," she replies, embarrassed.

"Well then, march it, sister," I insist, pointing in the bathroom's direction. "Remember, it keeps little girls healthy."

Retracing her steps to the bathroom, she glances over her shoulder. "Yes, Uncle Maxie."

"Good girl, I love you," I mumble, diverting my attention back to a blank email window.

Shit. It's already half-past three.

Composing the rest of this email is easy enough, complete with attaching a secure cloud file link of the full-resolution spreads. However, as inopportune as a toothache, my phone can't go without a good wail. It's Melanie, my fraternal twin sister.

"Hey Sis, what's up?" I reply and click ‘send' simultaneously.

She sounds to be up to her chipper self as usual. "Not too much," she affirms. "Just getting home from the grocery and had a few minutes," she adds, accompanied by ice cubes swishing around a plastic Starbucks cup.

I know my twin all too well to recognize she drinks more Starbucks than anyone in my life. And try as I might, it's too little too late to stage any sort of intervention. Nor do I have the schedule to accommodate flying fifteen hundred miles to Carmel, Indiana.

Mel continues her daily recap. "I've been so anxious all day, so I'm wondering if everything's well with you."

My sister is an empath, yes. But this is more like a twin power we possess. The only anxiety I've had lately was trying to dart from one terminal to another at JFK yesterday. If anyone can soothe all my worries, it's Dr. Brogan Baxter.

"I'm fine," I reply, fishing through my desk drawer to find a paperclip. "I got home way too damned late this morning—like practically the time you might've woken up."

Melanie lets out her suspicious grumble as if I'm withholding the truth. We've been inseparable since birth. And only as of ten years ago, when I moved to Colorado, have we had to rely on Skype and texting. But through it all, our extrasensory powers have all but weakened in the absence of each other's presence. Honestly, things have been going really well lately.

"No, honestly," I plead. "We're all well here, but I have to hurry because I gotta get Lily Bean to her COA peer class in less than thirty minutes."

Melanie gushes. "Awwww, how is my beautiful niece?"

I nod, rising from the office chair to power down my computer. "She's just fine too," I affirm. "Though I swear it seems like she gets bigger each time I return home from an extended shoot somewhere," I add, clearing my throat. "It's like Brogan sneaks Miracle-Grow into her apple juice."

"No kidding, right?" Mel agrees.

"Did you get any good groceries?" I ask, scanning the surface of my untidy desk for car keys.

She stalls with a sigh. "Oh, you know me," she feigns. "The many temptations give me hell every time I go to the grocery," she adds, sadly.

For as long as I can remember, Melanie has been fighting with her weight. However, since my move, I've witnessed her go from a size 24 to a 30 in only a couple of years. This is after our dad lost his battle with alcoholism since well before we graduated High School. All this to say, I'm always concerned about her health and wellbeing. Finally, I locate my car keys under a stack of folders. Which is peculiar, because I didn't do any work when I got home in the wee hours of the morning.

"I bet you're doing great, Mel Bell," I encourage her. "How is the Weight Watchers going for you?"

Her tone perks up. She proudly affirms, "I managed to shed nearly two pounds last week. But I'm terrified this isn't gonna make an enormous difference."

"Oh stop it," I bite back firmly. "Any progress is good progress, and I think you're terrific and beautiful—big or small—size doesn't matter."

She giggles. "Size matters for you, ya big homo."

That tracks. She has a point there. But I digress.

Bursting into laugher, I shuffle down the hallway to Lily's playroom. "I gotta say you make a valid point."

"What time do you have to leave with my adorable niece?" She asks.

Of course, in the moments I've wasted talking to her, only now, when I'm glancing into a mirror at the end of the hallway, do I realize I haven't even changed my shirt.

"Speaking of that—shit—God damn it—" I stammer, biting my lip in the process because I'm literally ten feet away from Lily. "I'm gonna have to let you go, because I still have to change into something that doesn't make me look like a disheveled hobo."

The sound of Melanie crunching her ice practically pierces my eardrums. "Okay, Max, thanks for talking to me for a while."

"Anytime, Mel Bell," I offer. "I love and miss you, too."

She replies with a gasp. "Love you more."

When it comes to ending a phone call, we act like a young married couple. Or like that one scene with Ben Affleck in "Forces of Nature," on the plane when he's gushing into the air phone.

"That's impossible," I insist. "Stay out of trouble, Missy."

As soon as we finally end the call, I scamper into Lily's playroom, only to notice she's not actually in here.

She must be up in her bedroom.

A quick trip up the staircase leaves me wondering what I'd do without Brogan being the primary parent. If I can't keep track of her for over a matter of half an hour, what's saying I'd be responsible enough to keep her out of harm's way when she's older?

"Lily, honey, put your socks on please," I shout, ascending to the top step. "Hurry, we've gotta get a move on or you'll be late."

Though a time fuck, I must step into our closet for a clean shirt. The silence down the hall shows the princess is lost in her thoughts. I can quickly put on a KC Royals baseball shirt and spritz on some designer cologne from Brogan's Christmas gift in just a minute.

Entering her spacious bedroom, I take stock of the little darling laid back into her plush bean bag chair admiring the galaxy star projector, illuminating the entire ceiling, speckled with dazzling stars in galaxies out yonder.

"Hurry sweetie—I told you to get some socks on—we're gonna be late," I advise breathlessly.

As soon as I finish dressing her appropriately, I scoop Lily into my arms to head down for the garage. She willingly assists me with the booster seat routine, and then I hop behind the steering wheel.

"Alright let's go, girlfriend," I offer a wink, hiding behind a pair of wayfarers.