Chapter 14
It’s eight o’clock. Time for Saoirse to burst through the door, all rosy, and breathless, and cheery, and radiant, and noisy, and so fucking beautiful that it takes me by surprise every single morning.
Not only is she a stunning woman, but her unwavering faith in the world and in humankind lights her up from the inside out. She touches everyone she encounters, and she has no idea. Even grumpy Bertie from the lift asks me to give her his best every time I get in.
She’s blunted the edges of my pain. Blunted isn’t the right word—she’s softened them to a gentle blur that makes the pain manageable. Because my pain has always been for Bea, not for myself, and the relief that engulfs me every time I see her with Saoirse is a tidal wave.
How we’ll ever move on from her mother leaving her, I don’t know, but I do know that taking it a day at a time, and seeing her so animated and joyous with Saoirse each day, means that day we’ve done okay.
We’ve survived. And Bea has practically thrived.
At present, that’s enough for me. It’s more than I could have hoped for a few months ago.
Saoirse’s light is infectious because she’s so generous with it. She shines it outwards, and it’s weaving its magic on both of us.
There she is.
The heavy door handle cranks downwards, and she appears in her ridiculous blue duffle coat that makes her look like a five-year-old, raindrops shimmering on her shoulders.
She beams at Bea, and then at me, as she unfastens the large toggles and wriggles out of her coat, exposing her slender figure in a little tartan skirt and a red polo neck that hugs her incredible breasts.
It’s my favourite part of the day, when she turns up.
When she does that.
I’ve been nursing a semi pretty much continuously since I took her top off in the bathroom that night, and, unfortunately, my cock’s memory is razor sharp. I scoot my chair further under the table and spit out a curt greeting as Bea climbs down from the table and runs to her.
‘It’s lashing outside, guys!’ She pulls out a chair, settling Bea sideways on her lap, and I pick up the teapot, lay a strainer over the cup I’ve put on her place mat, and pour her a cup of tea. This is our relatively new, but already familiar, morning routine.
I’ve lingered at the breakfast table in the mornings, rather than shooting off to the office like I used to the moment she arrived.
I’ve even persuaded her that The Montague’s house breakfast blend is far superior to those tea bags she carts around with her, and I’m pleased to see what an enthusiastic convert she’s been.
She pulls Bea’s bowl closer and spoons some porridge into her mouth, scraping the overspill off her lip with the side of her spoon.
‘Good girl. Yummy.’ She puts down the spoon and smooths Bea’s hair off her face. ‘You look very chic today, Bea. Nice dress.’
‘Daddy choosed it,’ Bea says with her mouth full.
Saoirse wiggles her eyebrows at me. ‘Well, Daddy’s taste in dresses is grand.’
‘Thank you. I enjoy channelling my inner four-year-old girl. Speaking of which, I need to have a word with you in private in a moment, Saoirse.’
‘In private?’ Bea whines. The kid has a hugely overactive FOMO gene. It’s the price I pay for not having given her a sibling and forcing her to spend far more time with adults than she should.
‘I need to talk to Saoirse about presents.’ I whisper the last word theatrically.
‘Oooh!’ She squirms excitedly in Saoirse’s arms. ‘Presents for Beadle?’
‘Maybe. If you’re a good girl.’
‘I am a good girl!’ She’s indignant. Then, with the random subject change small children excel at, she tells Saoirse: ‘Daddy calls me lots of silly nicknames. Beadle. Beeper. Beady.’
‘Because you have beady little brown eyes,’ I say. ‘Beamer. When you give me big smiles. Hmm. What else can we call you?’ I take a sip of coffee.
‘Beaver?’ Saoirse suggests.
Jesus.
I jerk forward. My hand shoots to my mouth to stop me ejaculating coffee, but I can’t prevent the huge snort I make.
Saoirse goes bright red. Fuchsia. ‘Oh my God,’ she says to herself, bowing her head. She takes a hasty slug of tea.
I’m still laughing when I take my hand away. ‘Delightful nickname.’
‘What’s a beaver?’ Bea asks.
Saoirse and I look at each other. She’s squirming like she wants to crawl under the table and die.
‘Um…’ she attempts.
‘A beaver is a semi-aqueous rodent,’ I tell Bea. I raise my eyebrows at Saoirse in mock disapproval. I’m really enjoying this. ‘They’re bigger than mice or rats, and they live in wetlands. And they’re very busy. Just like you. Hence the expression busy beavers.’
‘I like the name,’ Bea announces.
I grin at Saoirse. She’s put me in a seriously good mood this morning. ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ I mutter.
Unfortunately, I’m now going to spend the rest of the morning trying not to think about Saoirse’s beaver.
SAOIRSE
I’m still obsessing over my mortifying beaver comment as Miles puts CBeebies on the TV for Bea, pulls me into his bedroom— literally, by the arm—and shuts the door.
The room smells of him, expensive and herbal and male, and his bed is unmade. Duvet cover thrown back. Sheets rumpled. One battered-looking pillow lies vertically along the centre of the bed. Almost as if he was hugging it.
He cannot sleep hugging a pillow.
He cannot.
It’s too much.
I’ll die from an emotional overload.
My heart won’t survive this.
Just the thought of him lying in this bed—naked? Does he sleep naked? Or in those sexy pyjama bottoms I saw?—is causing me to have trouble breathing in and out. I turn away from the bed, but I can hardly look him in the eye.
What is going on? Has he pulled me in here to seduce me? That arm tug was quite… alpha, actually. Understated, but commanding. Like you know you want to come into my lair with me. Maybe the beaver conversation turned him on, or got his mind going in a sexual direction?
Oh, dear Lord.
I’m sweating.
He’s looking at me strangely, as if he’s reacting to what must be a weird expression on my face.
‘So, I need your help. I’ve got her lots of American Girl stuff for Christmas, but I don’t have much for her stocking, and despite my smart comment in there, I really have no ability to channel my inner four-year-old girl. I need you to go shopping for me. Please.’
Oh, thank God. Thank God.
The presents.
Doh!
Get it together, Saoirse. The poor guy has no interest in a post-breakfast, CBeebies-enabled quickie. He’s firmly in dad mode.
Presents. Right.
I’ll just ignore the disappointed, sinking feeling in my stomach.
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Sure. I mean—no problem. But what about Bea?’
‘I’ve booked her into The Playroom after lunch.
’ He brushes his hair out of his eyes and reaches up, opening the top door of the wardrobe.
‘They’re doing cupcake decorating. It’ll be good for her to hang out with some other kids.
So you’re free to shop. Right’—he pulls down a huge bag; the muscles in his shoulders and upper back flex against the perfectly crisp cotton of his shirt, and my lady parts clench in sync—‘this is what I’ve got.
Have a look through so you don’t duplicate. ’
He dumps the bag on the bed and I waste no time rifling through.
There’s a blonde American girl doll in full equestrian regalia.
She’s gorgeous. Bea is going to lose it.
And a horse! Bloody hell, an actual American girl horse.
And several flat boxes containing an outfit each.
A beach ensemble. A nurse’s outfit—adorable. A white diamante-trimmed dress.
‘Miles! This one’s the same as her favourite dress in The Playroom!’
‘I hoped it was,’ he muttered. ‘She’s gone on about it enough.’
‘They’re all amazing. She’ll love them.’
‘I just need’—he waves his hand around—‘bits and pieces for her stocking. I’m not so good at that stuff.’
‘Give me two hours on Oxford Street.’ I beam at him. ‘And your prayers will be answered. But are you really happy for me to channel my inner four-year-old? It won’t be a classy collection. As you know’—I point my thumb in the direction of the living room—‘her tastes don’t run subtle.’
‘I know.’ He nods his head. He looks pained. ‘I want her to be happy. Do what you need to do.’