I decide to keep my hand there on her thigh. Because I can. Because life is good.
“You don’t want just any old man to be your daddy, Lu.”
“You’re not that old,” she says, her words delivered like a pat to my hand. “You only have very tiny wrinkles.” I’m not sure how her squinting is supposed to make me feel better. “And I like you anyway. You make good pancakes.”
“At least until the arthritis sets in.” Fee snickers, earning her a tickling squeeze. “Stop that!”
“But a daddy needs to have more skills than pancakes.”
“Yes, he should also be good at tickles and bouncing on the bed with Mommy.”
“Er, sure.”
“It’s best not to ask,” Fee says, leaning in.
“What else should he be good at?”
Fucked if I know. My dad was kind of aloof, loving from an arm’s length distance. On the other hand, my grandfather was fucking effusive and so much fun, and look at what a bastard he turned out to be. But I digress.
“I think we should find that out together. Sort of like an interview or an internship for the position.”
“So, I’d be, like your boss?” She cocks her head to one side like a terrier.
“No. That’s not what he means at all.” Fee’s accompanying laughter almost seems like a warning.
I turn to her with a smirk. “I thought my days of being a freelancer were over.”
“Seriously though, I really don’t think you should jump the gun,” she replies, a little more serious now.
“You’re not getting rid of me. And you and me, princess, are going on a range of potential daddy-daughter dates.”
“Dates,” she repeats, a little delighted. “Like when Mr Farrow took Mommy to the movies yesterday?”
“No, nothing like that.” Her little face falls at my words. “Our dates will be so much better.”
“What will we do on our dates?”
“Whatever you like. Name it. We’ll spend some time together to see if you like the fit.”
“Do you and Mommy fit?”
As Fee smothers her giggle in her pillow, I manage to nod solemnly.
“Very, very well.”
“Can daddies make pain perdu for breakfast?” she ponders next. French toast by any other name is just as diabetes-inducing, especially if I’m making it.
“For you, I would love to. But do you think I could put some clothes on first?”
“Carson!” Fee’s hand swipes out, almost smacking me in my balls.
“Oof!”
“Why have you got no clothes on?” the little girl asks, aghast.
“Because he forgot to pack his jammies.”
“Carson, you need to bring jammies to a sleepover.” Lu holds out her hands, palms up as she speaks as though to say, “be reasonable”.
Or maybe responsible.
This parenting business is going to be a steep learning curve.
And I can’t fucking wait.
“Fuck that, man. No way! You don’t get to ring out.” Tucker throws the letter down on this desk, ringing the imaginary BUD/S bell three times before leaning back in his chair.
“I’m not ringing out,” I answer carefully, crossing over to the window of Tucker's office. The head office of Ardeo is housed in one of the newer buildings off Madison Avenue. Monochrome with Lego-coloured accents and furniture that, other than the sizing, looks like it belongs in a kindergarten. The aesthetic is open and modern and the antithesis of my own mausoleum-like space over at Hayes Industries. “I’m just done.”
“But this is your gig—your baby. You’re the baller, man!”
“Not anymore.”
“You’ve known this chick for what? Five goddamned minutes?”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you. We’re not shutting down. Your position—everyone’s position is safe.”
“But you’re the key here, Car. You’re the glue that keeps this group of fucking misfits together. And the members, don’t forget the members. They’re here because of who you are.”
“They’ll still come.”
“Less pussy will, that’s for sure.”
I ponder the double entendre before deciding I don’t care for his meaning either way. “That’s your one cheap shot,” I say evenly, looking down at the ant-like folks below. “The next one knocks you on your ass.”
“Okay,” he scoffs.
“And loses you a friend.”
“Jeez, okay!” He holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “You’re fuckin’ serious?”
“As a heart attack.” I turn to face him to be sure we’re clear.
“You’re in love.”
I begin to chuckle at his tone and the look on his face. “I think the general convention is to be happy for me, not disgusted.”
“Why?” Like a toddler throwing a tantrum, he throws himself back in his chair. “Love is like undergoing a frontal lobotomy,” he says, addressing the ceiling.
“If Ardeo ever fails, you can take your words to Hallmark.”
“I speak the truth,” he says, jack-knifing straight in his seat. “Love, same as having your cranium fucked, robs a man of his ability to function on his own.”
“Isn’t that the point of love? A bond. Of the chance to be selfless rather than selfish?”
“Now who’s interviewing for Hallmark? Love, Car, is nature’s way of avoiding extinction. It’s a trick. A con. A fucking swizz!”