Three years later. . .

“Stop it, Ash. You’ll ruin mommy’s cake,” I say, and he smacks the icing off the cake with the pastry brush, giggling naughtily.

Growling, I take the brush out of his hand and lift him off the counter. He makes a cooing sound, pleased that he has my attention again and bites my cheek softly as he murmurs, “Mama.”

Rolling my eyes, I chuckle. Ash is my life; my joy; my son. My little bundle of joy, I like to call him—and maybe trouble ...