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.
I place the glass in front of her as she eyes the jug, probably wondering where the juice came from, given there was very little of anything in the fridge. But you can’t have breakfast without OJ, as far as I’m concerned. If I’m cooking breakfast, I’m doing it properly. Besides, what’s the point of paying a concierge service tens of thousands of dollars each year if they can’t get a dozen Californian oranges to your door in under thirty minutes?
“My mummy’s name is Irish,” Lulu announces. “And my real name is French.”
“Lulu isn’t your real name?’ I splash a little juice into the glass when it becomes clear Fee isn’t going to do it herself. “I guess that must make you a spy or some kind of secret agent.”
“I’m not a spy. I’m Eloise!” she says, giggling. “Eloise Rose Alden.”
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Eloise.”
“Bonjour, Oncle Carson,” she intones, and her French accent is flawless. Rose did say her friend was relocating from France. What a head fuck that she’s been within my reach all these years.
“Eloise is also a very pretty name.” I continue speaking in French, mainly to distract my overworked brain.
“Merci. Carson is a very funny name.”
“Your French is very good.”
“Thank you. So is yours.”
“Drink your orange juice,” Fee prompts her child.
“Maman doesn’t speak French?”
Fee sends me a withering look as her daughter answers with a giggle. “Of course she does, silly!”
Yes, I know that. I remember that. And now it looks like I don’t. Damn.
“It’s not polite to call people silly.” Along with the reprimand, Fee lowers her lashes almost demurely as I consider it’s probably also not polite to mention her mom is the hottest woman I’ve ever held in my arms. That she’s haunted my dreams. That I’ve been chasing the same kind of high since that fateful night.
An image of that night suddenly flicks to life in my