I exhaled slowly through my nose while Ella and Owen kept bouncing on the mattress behind me like they had unlimited energy reserves and a personal vendetta against my sanity.
At this point?
I was letting them.
Because clearly exhaustion wasn’t real for children.
Maybe if they kept launching themselves around long enough, eventually gravity would win and knock them unconscious.
A man could dream.
My eyes drifted shut for half a second.
And immediately—
Her.
Martha.
Blonde hair spread over a pillow.
Long lashes resting against her cheeks.
Soft breathing.
Warm skin tangled in expensive sheets in some giant Portland apartment that probably smelled like coffee, vanilla candles, and those stupidly expensive books lawyers pretend they read for fun.
I groaned quietly.
This was bad.
