Nora Dodson is a "fast-talking, F-bomb-dropping, born-and-bred New Yorker". Harry Styles is no longer a member of One Direction. He's lovely, kind and a very odd young man, though he's entirely unhappy in his relationship. But then he meets Nora an...
"Well, we haven't found the perfect name for her."
"Why?"
"Daddy and I didn't decide your names until right before you guys were born. We like to think really hard about it." I mix the bouillon paste in with the vegetables in the pan.
"When will you know?" They look so similar, both sitting with their hands clasped, big blue eyes staring at me, waiting for my answer.
"When we know." I find pleasure in taunting them, but they clearly do not.
"You aren't being funny, mummy." Rosie clips, wanting a real answer. Before I can give her one, the basement door opens and a cheery looking Harry comes waltzing in.
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"My goodness, it smells good in here..." He says, dimples as deep as the Mariana Trench. Rosie and Peter both begin shouting at him, trying to get his attention. Before giving it to them fully, he stands behind me and kisses my shoulder. "What have you got here?"
"Veggies and ground turkey sautéed in bouillon paste."
"Mmm..." The kids continue to call for him and I can feel his low chuckle reverberate off of me. He turns to them and indulges in an endearing conversation, while I listen with a smile on my face. A few minutes later, Peter slides off his barstool and shuffles over to me.
"Mummy?" I reduce the heat to low and I cover the pan with the lid before he reaches up and I pull him up onto my hip.
"What is it, baby?"
"My head hurts." I turn to Harry.
"Har?"
"Hm?"
"Will you watch this? It should be fine for a few minutes, I'm going to take him up and get him some Tylenol." Harry's fingers lightly caress Peter's cheek and then he kisses his head.
"You feeling okay, pal?"
"No, my head hurts."
"Uh-oh. You know what that means?" Peter shakes his head a smile grows on Harry's face. He starts to tickle him and Peter giggles. "There's a monster inside your head!" I laugh, but I don't want his headache to get worse, so I pull away from my husband's wiggling fingers and I walk towards the stairs.
"Rosie, help daddy finish dinner." Of course, she's glad to do so. When we get up to their bathroom, I sit him on the counter and open the medicine cabinet. I hand him a chewable kid's Tylenol and he winces, but swallows the pasty medication. "Where does it hurt, baby?" He points to the top of his head and I softly feel where his finger was only seconds before.
