Never Say Forever

I see now what I should be sorry for is not recognising her.

“I’m Grandpa’s little angel, aren’t I, Mummy?”

Fee doesn’t answer, her eyes as wide as saucers, her gaze fixed on mine as her whispered words fall in a rush. “Don’t. Please don’t say anything else.”

The things I want to say to her aren’t meant for our little audience because the things I want to say to her would only lead to the things I want to do.

To her. With her. And then start all over again.

“Can we start again?” Fee nods quickly because we can’t go back. “I was making coffee when the kid came in, and I saw no harm in making her breakfast.” How the fuck can my voice sound so completely normal when inside my head is complete chaos?

“I’m not the kid,” the little girl complains. “I’m Lulu. Kids belong to goats. Children belong to people. Norman belongs to me, and Norman needed pancakes because his tummy was noisy!”

“That’s very true. I could hear it from all the way over here. Which, by the way, is where I’ve been since Lulu came into the kitchen. Her and Norman on the stool and me over here.” I gesture to the granite countertop between us. No physical contact, inappropriate or otherwise, has been made.

“I’m not suggesting . . .” Her words trail off, her fair eyebrows drawing together before she begins again, her tone a touch more even. “I’m not suggesting anything. But Lulu couldn’t have known for certain that you were familiar with Rocco and his parents.”

Stranger danger for real. I thought for a minute she was concerned the kid had been inadvertently introduced to a parent. Or vice versa.

I can’t be.

No.

Can I?

“I, er, showed her photos.” I slide my phone out from the pocket of my shorts, my thoughts pinging around like the contents of a pinball machine. “You’re welcome to view the proof.” I swipe open the first photo of Rocco I find. We’re on Remy’s yacht, and I’m holding Rocco on my shoulders, who looks to be fifty percent lifejacket and fifty percent grin. I find myself smiling down at my phone before I remember who’s supposed to be looking at this, so I slide it across the countertop towards her.

She bumps Lulu higher on her hip, taking a step closer to pick it up.

“Feel free to scroll. But maybe not too far . . .” I add an aw, shucks grin because that might’ve been a little too much truth.

“I want my juice.” The kid begins to wriggle, obviously too long and too heavy to be held there against her will.

Fee puts down both my phone and Lulu, who inadvertently pulls a number of her mom’s shirt buttons loose.

“Lulu!” she exclaims. As she clutches the sides together in her fist, her eyes meet mine, her expression an adorable pink.

Just when I thought this day couldn’t get any better.

8

Carson

“Just stop,” she whispers, her eyes pleadingly wide.

“Of all the mornings not to be wearing my contact lenses.”

“What about last night?” she mutters scornfully as she turns from me to refasten her shirt. Which is a little like closing the gate after the horses have escaped the corral. Such pretty horses, too. “Were you wearing your lenses then?”

“Last night? No.” It’s an honest answer. The lie is in suggesting I don’t possess perfect vision in the first place. “Can I get you a coffee?” I turn, which allows her a little privacy, though it’s mostly just to hide my growing smile. Aged nine, nineteen, or ninety, a man is hardwired to appreciate breasts, and an unanticipated glimpse or flash is the highlight of any day.

“Thank you, but no.” She helps Lulu onto her stool before sliding onto one herself. “Don’t drink so fast, sweetie.”

The kid puts down her glass, her next words muffled and spoken into the neck of her own pyjama shirt. “Mummy has big boobies.”

They’re certainly a good handful and bigger than I remember. Though I have sense enough not to say so as I pull out the jug of freshly squeezed juice from the fridge, turning back to her stifled groan and pinked expression.

“They say discretion is certainly the better part of valour.” I push the jug across the countertop, her eyes rising to mine.

“And picking your battles is certainly a large part of parenthood,” she murmurs, misinterpreting my point.

Is this where I should ask her about the kid’s father? Obliquely? Abruptly? Ask her if the little girl currently wiping pulp from her tongue is mine? I open my mouth as my mind continues to spin, finding myself asking instead, “Is Fee short for Fiona?”

“It’s short for Fiadh.”

“Fear?” I repeat, turning from pulling a glass from the cabinet.

“Fee-a.” Not fear, not even close to it. There’s something almost lyrical about the way she says her own name.