Flynn hung his head. “This is my life.”
“I blame Claire and Megan,” Katy said with the wisdom of a seen-it-all, done-it-all, thirteen-year-old. “You shouldn’t have let them tell the story about the time they dyed Mrs. Baxter’s sheep pink.”
“I blame lack of birth control,” Flynn muttered. Then he lifted his T-shirt to check his abs. Aye, still better than Beckham’s.
“I’m back,” Abby shouted from the front of the house.
Flynn spun to face his daughter. “I’ll give you twenty pounds if you keep the kids out of the way until I break the news to your mother.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Fifty, and I’ll take away Fergus’ paints.”
“Done.” Bloody terrorist.
She held out her hand. “Cash up front.”
He narrowed his eyes at her as he dug his wallet out of his back pocket. “No trust. I would have been good for it. As you keep reminding me, I’m still sitting on a pile of gold from my footballing days.” And from the odd advertising campaign—just to keep up awareness of his causes. It had absolutely nothing to do with reminding the world he was still there and looking damn good too.
He slapped a fifty into her palm. “Run. I’ll head her off.” And then he jogged out of the dining room and through the house to intercept his
wife.
His breath caught in his throat as it usually did whenever he saw her after she’d been out of his sight for any length of time. Hell, all it took was five minutes apart, he was that gone on his wife. Had there ever been a more beautiful woman? With her long chestnut hair and her peaches-and-cream complexion, she was a sexier version of Kate Middleton, and way better looking than Beckham’s Posh.
“Hey, gorgeous.” Flynn wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her to him. “How was your day?”
He looked down into her wide eyes and stilled. She looked shocked, or worried, maybe afraid. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. His hold on her tightened. “What’s wrong?”
Abby licked her lips and blinked up at him. “Don’t be mad.”
And just like that, his blood pressure shot right up. “Did you crash the car? Are you hurt?” He looked through the glass in the front door behind her, but the car seemed fine.
“No.” She glanced away, her usually pink cheeks paling. “Maybe we should sit down? How about a nice cup of tea?”
He looked at her, his eyes narrowing as his heart raced. Something was very wrong. The last time she’d looked like this was when…
His knees gave way and he plopped back onto the stairs behind him. “No,” he groaned as he ran a hand through his hair.
She sat close beside him on the stairs, her hand on his leg, patting him. “This is all your fault,” she said gently, making his eyes jerk up to look at her.
“What?”
She smiled at him. That angel smile of hers that she only pulled out when she wanted to get away with murder. “I told you to use a condom, but you said, ‘it’ll be fine.’ You were wrong.”
“We can’t have more children,” he whined. “We can barely cope with the four we have.”
“I know.” She wrapped an arm around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder. “It will be okay. We’ll manage.”
He sighed and pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her. “How far along are you?”
“Fourteen weeks.”
He shook his head. “I thought you were just getting fat.”
“Flynn!” She smacked his shoulder.
“What?”
“Women don’t like it when you call them fat.”