I push away from my desk, where I’ve basically been writing any extra second I can find this weekend. Because when inspiration strikes, you harness that bitch for all it’s worth. Apparently, my inspiration comes in the form of an incredibly gorgeous six-foot-four-inch hockey hottie whose velvety voice I hear in my mind even when he’s texting me. My knees crack as I squat in front of my daughter and run my thumb over her chocolatey cheek. Such an old-ass twenty-five-year-old.
