Her husband was currently splitting time between his remote home office in Maine and his company’s corporate headquarters in Boston. The fall and holidays had gone fine with Ethan only making the trip a handful of times. Unfortunately, with January’s arrival came a slew of reasons for Ethan to be on-site. At this point he was traveling to Boston every week, often for days at a time. Not the plan they’d made when deciding to relocate.

“What a bummer. You were so excited about the presentation.” Sadie racked her brain, unable to recall exactly what he’d been working on this month. He was a hustler, eternally developing new products for his tech company, his can-do attitude the reason why he’d scrambled up the corporate ladder, impressing managers at every level.

That was, until his recent boss.

“Marlow stood me up.”

She could hear the exasperation in his voice and clearly pictured the hand he must be raking through his wavy brown hair. “Turns out the bastard ditched our one-on-one to take a client to Palm Beach on the company jet.”

Sadie had a mental flash about being whisked away on a Gulfsteam, sipping a mimosa and nibbling a cheese plate, before blinking back to reality.

“That sucks. But he probably acts like this because he’s threatened by your talent.”

“You think?” Ethan didn’t sound so sure.

“I know.” She frowned at her Fitbit watch. Ten fifteen already? Seriously? Where had the morning gone? “Look, it’s either that, or he has an asshole gene. His ancestors probably burned witches or took part in the Spanish Inquisition.”

Ethan chuckled, and Sadie smiled at the receiver. She hadn’t made her husband laugh much lately and the infectious rumble swelled her heart.

Unfortunately, they’d have to reconnect tonight. She still had to uncover Lincoln’s pee and hightail him to his two-year checkup that was in fifteen minutes at the Coastal Kids Medical Group.

“Hey, tell you what. Let’s pick this back up when you get home,” she said in her most soothing tone, just as Lincoln crashed into her knees. “Whoa, bud! Crap, that hurt!”

She yanked her toddler back with a gasp. He’d been out of her sight for what? Three minutes? And in that time, he’d managed to unearth her favorite lipstick and cover his chest in red streaks. He’d even pulled off a Jackson Pollock­–inspired art scene over the foyer’s creamy damask wallpaper.

That’s it. They might as well move to a barn.

“Lincoln, no! Bad! Bad, bad, bad!” Her low-grade headache ratcheted up a notch. “Seriously what the f-f-frog.”

Her last-minute save didn’t stop her son from bursting into startled sobs.

It wasn’t an official f-bomb, but it came close. The last thing she needed was Lincoln roaming the playground while swearing like a sailor.

“No, no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you are bad. You’re a good boy. The best boy ever. But that’s Mommy’s nice wall. Drawing is for paper. Drawing on a wall is bad.”

“Sade? You two okay over there? Is Lincoln hurt?”