Taylor

Just out of my barely warm-but-safe-for-the-baby bath, I scoop up Nya, and we crash on the sofa.

My eyes flutter open to the vision of Jackson standing over me with Nya in his arms, lapping at his cheek and neck.

“Hey, sleepy,” he greets.

I slowly slide to a semi-upright position near the arm of the sofa. Jackson doesn’t hide his shit-eating-grin.

“What did you do?”

He is up to something ornery; he has no poker face.

“Look at your ...