Part 1 (1/2)

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.”