Fighting Our Way (Broken Tracks 2)

“Morning, Clay.”

He offers a grunt in reply and I leave him to eat his breakfast while I make quick work of Izzie’s hair. Stepping over to Clay, I run my hands through his brown hair, trying to tame it. He definitely needs a haircut soon.

“Dad had an early morning meeting,” I tell them as I head to the sink and start cleaning up the pans I used for breakfast. “I’ll be taking you to school today.”

I don’t get a response; not that I expected one anyway.

Submerging my hands into the soapy water in the sink, I scrub all of the pans clean before transferring them into the dishwasher. I know it’s not needed to wash them twice, but it’s my thing—I like to make sure things are squeaky clean.

Their voices rising has me turning my head slightly as Clay tells Izzie she can’t do whatever it is she’s doing. I chuckle under my breath. That girl can’t take no for an answer and there’s no way she’ll let Clay tell her what she can or can’t do.

“You’re not the boss of me!”

“I’m older than you, which means I am the boss.”

“No, you’re not! Daddy is the boss, not you!”

He huffs, his patience wearing thin. So much like his dad. “You can’t put chocolate sauce on your eggs. It’s… disgusting.”

My head whips around as Izzie squirts chocolate sauce all over her eggs, not listening to him in the slightest.

“Yes, I can.” She gives him a smile that says she can do anything she wants as I pick up a towel to wipe my hands dry.

“No, Izzie,” I say, stepping forward and removing the bottle out of her hands. “Clay’s right: you can’t have chocolate sauce on your eggs.”

Her eyes widen, becoming glassy as she stares at me and the offending bottle of chocolate sauce. Her gaze swings back and forth between me, Clay, and the bottle innocently.

“Daddy would let me,” she whispers.

Looking at her with a raised brow and pursed lips, I don’t say anything as I pick up the plate with the chocolate-covered eggs before making her some more toast.

“Can I have pancakes—”

“No,” I cut her off. I know exactly what she wants. She’d eat pancakes smothered in chocolate sauce and whipped cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinner if she could.

She huffs, her face turned down as I place the toast in front of her. Not willing to get into this argument with her when we need to leave in a few minutes, I say, “Eat up. We need to leave soon.”

She picks her toast up, scrunching her nose up at it before taking a tentative bite as Clay finishes up and passes me his plate. “I’m going to go and get my bag,” he says, his voice low.

“Okay, we’ll meet you by the door.”

“Poohead,” Izzie whispers to him as the door swings closed behind him.

“Izzie,” I warn, giving her the look that tells her she’s going to get into trouble if she doesn’t stop.

One argument and half a slice of toast later, we’re finally walking out of the door and toward the car Tristan makes me use to take the kids where they need to be. I press the key fob to open the doors and watch as they make their way over to it. Pulling the front door half closed, I stop when a UPS van starts up the driveway.

A man in a brown uniform gets out the driver’s side with a square box and device on top of it.

“Package for Amelia Rivers.” His voice sounds bored, his face expressionless as he hands me the device to sign my name and gives me the package.

I place it just inside the door then lock it, heading to the car and slipping into the driver’s seat before heading down the driveway and onto the main road.

Izzie talks the whole way to school while Clay has his nose stuck in his book—as usual.

The houses pass us by, all large with their own driveways as drivers leave them, no doubt taking the children to school in the same way I am.

It took some getting used to when I first took Clay to school with Edward all those years ago. Where I grew up, yellow buses or your own two feet were the only way to get to school. We didn’t have a uniform like the one Izzie and Clay have to wear to their private school either, we wore our own clothes which meant you could tell who the poorer kids were and who had more money than others.