Defensive Daddy

?d managed to unpack and where things were—and I left my son in the hands of a man I hardly knew.

I guess I was about to find out.

CHAPTER FOUR

COOPER

It took about sixty seconds flat for Levi to practically own me; hook, line, and sinker. He’d asked me which superhero I was, and when I didn’t answer fast enough, he stood before me, one hand on his hip and the other tapping his chin like a grown man. Then, he pointed at me with more seriousness in his eyes than I’d expected from a three-year-old.

“You’re Superman,” he stated matter-of-factly. “You look like him.”

Well, if that didn’t boost my fucking ego, nothing would. “I look like Clark Kent?”

“No, Superman.”

“But Clark Kent and Super—”

“I said you’re Superman,” he insisted, his voice strained with exasperation at my obvious incomprehension.

“Superman, it is, then.” I had to purse my lips together to keep from laughing. “And which superhero are you, Levi?”

“Spiderman, duh!” He held his arm out toward me, flicking his wrists theatrically as though he could shoot webbing from the base of his palms. “He’s the best!”

“Agreed, little man.” I finally pointed back toward the kitchen just as he was searching through a backpack beside his bed—a Spiderman backpack, of course—and pulled out two action figures, one Spiderman and the other Superman. “Well, I’ll be, Levi! There’s you and me, huh?”

The little boy handed me the Superman toy, nodding emphatically.

“Do you think even superheroes need breakfast? Because I’m pretty sure your mom said that was first on our list of things to do.”

“Superheroes need good breakfasts!”

“Like what?”

“Like...” Levi’s finger went back to tapping his chin again. “Like chocolate cake!”

I lost it, bursting out laughing without the ability to contain myself. “I must admit, I like the way you think,” I chuckled. “But I’m pretty sure your mom wouldn’t agree.”

Nevertheless, we managed to get through breakfast time, and the meal of peanut butter toast and a glass of milk even resembled real breakfast food. Okay, so we’d had to sneak over to my apartment to add just a bit of chocolate syrup to the milk, but, c’mon, the babysitter had to be cool, right?

After that, things were smooth sailing between him and I. That was the thing about young kids; they called it like they saw it, and once they were comfortable with you, you’re good to go. Anyone watching us from an objective standpoint might have thought that boy and I had known each other his entire life. If he was disappointed in being stuck with me instead of his father, he didn’t show it.

In fact, the one and only time I mentioned Levi’s dad—I had to, my morbid curiosity was killing me—the answer I received was short and sweet.

“Where’s your daddy?” I’d asked Levi simply. We’d turned unpacking some of the boxes piled in the living room into a game, and the little boy was currently half-dangling off the side of a huge cardboard box, reaching for whatever he wanted inside it so badly.

“He’s busy.” Levi didn’t mention him again. Neither did I.

The first time I pulled out my cell and glanced at the time, it was close to noon. That surprised me, seeing as the hours had flown by in a flurry of toy car chases, superhero tag-you’re-it (that’s what Levi called it; not tag, but tag-you’re-it), and unpacking. Levi’s eyelids were heavy by the time I laid him down in his bed for his afternoon nap, and he didn’t fight me on it at all.

The second time I checked the clock on my cell, Levi had been asleep for nearly two and a half hours, and I realized I’d forgotten to ask Samantha how long I should let him sleep for.

To her credit, she’d only texted me twice to ask how things were going. No capital letters, no exclamation marks, and no emoticons. Just the question.

In response to her first text, I’d merely sent a selfie of Levi and me, two toothy grins so big it made our eyes squint.

The second text, I sent actual words.

Fine. Just curious how long I should let him nap?