Connection (Temptation #6) - K.M. Golland Page 0,2
all the time.”
Fi deadpans, “It’s not that easy, Lib.”
I laugh. “Yeah, it is.”
She purses her lips. “I was going to tell you not to listen to Mum, because I liked your piggytails, but now you can kiss my arse.”
Covering Izzy’s ears, I turn her away from her potty-mouthed mother and say, “Naughty Mummy said a bad word.”
Fi rolls her eyes at me just as Mum returns with a large crystal vase for her flowers.
“Did you girls plan this?” she asks, smiling at us.
“Plan wha—”
“Yes,” Fi interrupts, her grin smug.
“How sweet.” Mum happily arranges her lilies and roses. “New flowers and a new vase. Aren’t I spoilt?”
Leaning closer to my gloating sister, I murmur, “Did you get her that ginormous vase for her birthday?”
She nods. “Yep.”
It looks expensive, much more expensive than my flowers and bath bombs.
“You’re such a suck,” I add.
“That’s why I’m the favourite and you’re not.”
I glare at her, but she’s right; she is the favourite. Always has been. Mum’s golden child—married, successful, the bearer of a grandchild.
I only tick one of those boxes.
Fi pokes out her tongue then helps Mum get plates out to set the table while I stand helpless with Izzy in my arms.
“Thank you, Fiona.” Mum pats her hand.
“Anything for my mother on her birthday.”
I almost spew in my mouth. Fi is so blatantly obvious, and as per usual, she’s also successfully set me up. I can’t help, not with a toddler on my hip.
“How’s work, Elizabeth?” Dad asks as he dishes up some roasted carrots.
“Fine. Teaching Grade 3 is a joy.” I sneak a carrot off a plate and blow it, cooling it down before handing it to Izzy.
“Libby!” Fi scolds. “She’s already had her dinner.”
My eyes bulge at my younger sister. “So?”
Izzy smashes the carrot into her gob and hums her appreciation. Dad and I laugh.
“So… she won’t drink her bedtime bottle if she eats too many solids.”
“If she’s hungry, she’s hungry. If she isn’t, she isn’t. Look at her.” Izzy sucks on her mucky fingers. “Clearly, she’s hungry.”
“It doesn’t work that way.” Fi huffs and hands me a wet wipe.
I take it and clean Izzy’s fingers and face, baffled by my sister’s logic. “You worry too much about what those stupid parenting books say.”
“Those ‘stupid parenting books’ are helpful.”
“Yeah, helpful in stressing first-time parents like you out.”
“Don’t judge me, Lib.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. When you have kids, you can do what you wan—”
I shove Izzy back into her arms, grab a bunch of cutlery, and head into the dining room to set the table. I’m not in the mood for her holier-than-thou attitude. And anyway, I’m older; that attitude should come from me.
As I enter the room, Fi’s husband, Ian, is already sitting at the table, his head down, mobile phone in hand. He looks up and smiles then slides the phone into his back pocket.
“Hey, Lib.”
“Hey, why are you hiding in here?”
His back straightens. “I’m not hiding.”
Smirking, I lay down a knife and fork. “I never said I blamed you for doing so. Why do you think I’m in here too?”
Ian relaxes. “What happened this time, huh?”
I shrug. “Just the usual—my hair wasn’t right, and your wife is better than me.”
“She’s not better than you.” He stands up and takes a bunch of cutlery from me. “And there’s nothing wrong with your hair.”
I scoff just as Mum, Dad, Fi, and Izzy enter the room.
“Ian, can you help carry some plates?” Fi snaps. “Or better yet, take Iz and put her in her highchair.”
He gives me an I-feel-your-pain look, hands back the cutlery, and pries Iz from Fi’s arms.
My ten-month-old niece squirms like a worm and says, “Mum, Mum, Mum.”
Ian blows a raspberry into her chest. “How about Dad, Dad, Dad?”
She cackles, and it’s the loveliest sound I’ve heard all day, maybe ever.
Taking a seat, I ask Mum about her day. “Did you do anything special for your birthday?”
“I’m doing it now, dear.”
“No, I mean today. Did you go to the movies, or out for lunch, or something like that?”
“No. But your father did set up a table in your old bedroom for me so I can do my scrapbooking.”
“Cool!” I fork a roasted potato, pop it into my mouth, and mumble, “Nice job, Dad.”
“What about you, Elizabeth? Did you do anything special today?” Mum asks, her expression hopeful.
I almost groan. “If you mean did I go on a date with a strapping young man, then no.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face.”
She turns to Dad