I had just shoved the twins' backpacks into their hands when a low groan rumbled from the living room.
We froze.
Rome shifted again, his fingers brushing against the couch as his head tilted back. His lips, faintly stained with my lipstick, parted as he mumbled something under his breath.
Egypt gasped. "Mommy, he's really waking up this time!"
Paris's eyes widened with excitement instead of fear. "Finally! I want to see what he says when he sees his mustache!"
I almost collapsed right then and there. These kids were going to be the end of me.
"Go! Out the door, now!" I whispered, trying to push them toward the door. But they just dug their heels into the floor like stubborn little mules.
Rome stirred again. His brows furrowed, and this time, he let out a hoarse sound.
The twins clutched each other's hands, their little shoulders shaking. At first, I thought it was fear. But no. They were laughing—silently.
