Chapter 11 Sullivan
SULLIVAN
A mouth-watering aroma flows around my living area, like a living, breathing entity, carrying the sound of music and a soft female voice singing with it.
I look up from my laptop just in time to see Tate grin at Molly who is standing beside her at the cooker on a booster step.
She hands Molly a spoon and helps her stir a large pot of something.
“Good job, Molly,” she praises. “Do you think you can keep an eye on it while I check the cookies?”
My daughter nods, her little face glowing as she’s handed responsibility.
I close the lid of my laptop and steeple my fingers as I watch.
“Ooh, they’re done,” Tate declares, taking a tray from the oven and placing it on a rack to cool.
My call ended a while ago, but I’ve remained sitting at the dining table where I have a direct line of sight to them both.
Tate took Molly into the kitchen the moment we arrived home, and I’ve been trying to work.
But every delighted laugh of Molly’s has had me snapping my head up to see what she’s finding so entertaining.
And each time I’ve lowered my eyes back to my screen, another sound has filled my ears, commanding my attention.
The sound of sweetly sung notes, so quiet that if I were to tap on the keys I might miss them.
Tate sings, winking at Molly as she joins her stirring the pot on the stove. I don’t recognize the song she’s singing, but I strain to hear every word to make sure they’re suitable for Molly to hear.
“Whispers of the past, the future’s calling... Unleash your potential… let the world hear your sound.”
“It’s ready!” Tate calls, glancing over her shoulder. “Oh.” She falters when she sees me staring at her. “Um… dinner’s ready.”
I walk over to the places she’s set at the kitchen island and help Molly up into her booster seat. Tate places down two plates of steaming pasta with mushrooms and truffle shavings on them, then steps back with a look of trepidation.
“Tell me what you think,” she says.
I slide into the seat and twirl a thick ribbon of pasta around my fork, aware of her eyes on my mouth as I take it in and chew. Flavor bursts on my tongue and I lick my lips after swallowing, already loading up another forkful.
“It’s good. Really good.”
She exhales with a laugh like she was holding her breath. “You sound surprised.”
“Sorry.” I hold her eyes over the steaming pasta on my fork and she flusters.
Molly’s digging in happily beside me and Tate’s eyes slide to her, lighting up as she makes noises of approval.
Her pasta has been cut into small pieces for her so she can get it in her mouth on her small fork.
My eyes zero in on the small pieces on her plate before I look back at Tate, who’s clearing up the cooking pans.
“Why aren’t you eating?” It’s a simple question, but it comes out as an accusatory bark.
She startles, dropping the spoon. I rise from my seat, collecting a plate from the cabinet. Tate side-eyes me as I stand beside her, depositing a serving from the pan onto it.
“You need to eat,” I say.
“I can wait until I get home. It’s not like I’ll waste away.” She laughs awkwardly, smoothing down the T-shirt that belonged to her loser ex over her curvy hips.
I flick my eyes over where the band logo covers her breasts and grind my teeth.
Tate?” I clip in a low voice.
“Yeah?” She blinks up at me innocently.
I inhale slowly to calm myself.
“My daughter will not be subjected to talk of healthy female bodies being anything other than something to be proud of.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh… I…”
I lean closer, and she tilts her head back to look up at me. “So I suggest you start considering the way you talk about yourself carefully. Understand?”
She nods.
“Understand?” I repeat, holding the plate of pasta out.
She swallows, her lips parting as she holds my eyes. “I understand.”
“Good girl. Now eat.”
The pasta disappears quickly as the three of us eat together.
Tate avoids looking at me, instead, giving her attention to Molly and telling her about animals, reeling off random facts, including how pigs are used to sniff out the truffles we just ate.
My daughter hangs off her every word with big, wide eyes.
“Do you want me to get the dessert we made so you can show Daddy?” Tate asks her.
“Yay!” Molly claps. “Daddy, we made cookies.”
“You did, huh? You’ve been busy.”
She smiles at me, and Tate reaches for the plates. I stand before she can and clear them away myself. “I’ve got it.”
“Thanks,” she murmurs, stalling for a moment like she feels uneasy in my kitchen, despite the fact she seemed at home singing in it a mere twenty minutes ago.
“Side plates are in that one.” I gesture to a cabinet and her shoulders soften.
“Great. I’ll get them.”
The cookies have Molly shouting with excitement.
“Daddy!” She points to the cat shapes.
Half are intricately designed like something from a baking magazine; the cat’s faces and whiskers drawn on perfectly with icing, and pastel-colored sweaters adorn their bodies. The other half have wobbly mouths and blobs of thick icing strewn over them.
I pick up one of the inebriated-looking cats.
“This is the best cat wearing a sweater cookie I’ve ever seen in my life,” I announce. Tate’s staring at me, so I add, “Wouldn’t you agree, Tate?”
Her cheeks flush and she nods. “Absolutely. The best.”
Molly beams with pride.
I’m not one for cookies, but I eat the entire thing, making a show of smacking my lips against my fingertips and giving a chef’s kiss when I’m done. “Well done, Sweetheart.”
Molly smiles, her face covered in crumbs and icing.
Tate’s eyes snap to my face as Molly grabs another cookie and takes a bite. “They’re oat flour and coconut sugar. All organic,” she says in a rush like she thinks I’m about to make a comment.
“Even the sweaters?” I ask, my eyes sliding in amusement to one of the neater cats wearing polka-dots.
“Yeah, even the sweaters,” she says, looking at me like she was expecting me to be pissed.
She stands before I can and starts clearing up again.
“You don’t need to do that.”
She shakes her head, keeping her back to me, like she doesn’t want to look at me. “It’s okay. I made the mess; I’ll clean it up before I go. Unless you want me to do Molly’s bedtime routine?” She pauses and looks at me over her shoulder.
“I don’t,” I state, standing quickly the moment Molly finishes her cookie.
If Tate’s offended by my gruff reply, she doesn’t show it.
I thank her and take Molly to the bathroom to help her wash up. I’m lying on her bed, finishing up reading to her with her nightlight on when there’s a soft knock on the door.
“Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to tell you I’m leaving,” Tate says, her eyes softening as she looks at a sleepy Molly with her head resting on my chest, her heavy eyelids fighting to concentrate on the cartoon image on the page in front of her.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s time we finished for the night.”
Molly mumbles sleepily and I run my fingers through her hair; the silky feel of it the only thing that calms me. Storytime with her is my favorite part of the day. No matter what shitstorm could have happened at work, this is my sanctuary. The thing that keeps me anchored and stable.
I maneuver her onto her pillow and slide from the bed, leaning down to kiss her forehead as I cover her with the duvet. “Good night, Sweetheart.”
Tate’s hovering in the hallway as I step out and close the door.
“That’s a nice story you were reading to her,” she comments, wrapping her arms around herself. “What’s it called?”
“I don’t recall,” I say, my spine stiffening.
“It sounded like it was about an adventurer?” she says, looking at me.
“Adventurer or risk-taker, depending on how you look at it.”
She laughs. “Aren’t all adventures a risk?”
I press my lips together, my chest tightening.
She looks embarrassed when I don’t respond. “I should go.”
I swallow down the lump in my throat, regaining control. “Cliff will drive you home.”
“Right, yep, thanks.” She turns, and I follow her into the living area. I call down to Cliff and ask him to collect her from the door.
Tate hovers awkwardly as we wait.
“My new uniform is in,” she says, stumbling over her words. “One that actually fits.” She shrugs a shoulder with a forced laugh. “So I can wear that in future, if you prefer?”
“If I prefer?”
“I mean… you look at all of my clothes like you hate them. I’ve caught you glaring at this,” she tugs on the hem of her T-shirt, “at least six times tonight.”
More like six hundred.
I grind my teeth, placing my hands on my hips.
“Not all of your clothes. Just ones from loser ex boyfriends. And ones that are…” I run my tongue along the edge of my teeth, searching for the right word.
“Distracting?” Tate offers.
“Ones that incite inappropriate reactions,” I say.
She laughs weakly. “I’m not worried about Jones. He’s just a flirt. He acted the same with my boss, Ashley, when he came in for coffee earlier.”
I pause, processing the fact that Jones has already been in for coffee, when I know he’s only ever over on Fifth when he has a meeting with me.
And we had nothing scheduled today. My mind flits back to calling Tate, and Ashley telling me she was busy with a customer who wanted her number.
Exactly what Arabella told me happens to Tate all the time while she’s working.
“I wasn’t talking about Jones.”
“You weren’t?” Her brow furrows. “Then, who?”
I allow myself a slow perusal of her. The clothes are a disgrace, frankly.
She fidgets as my eyes rake over where the dips and curves of her body would be if they weren’t covered in cheap, shapeless fabric.
She’s nothing like the women I like to fuck.
They’re put-together, styled in designer outfits that suit their slender, waif-like figures.
I know I’m scowling, trying to understand why it is that my dick’s rapidly hardening as I drink her in.
There’s a knock at the door, and I welcome the opportunity to stalk away from her to answer it.
“I’ll call you when I need you again,” I tell Tate as Cliff stands on the other side of the door, waiting to drive her home.
“Okay.” She nods and pauses, waiting to see if I’ll move from the doorway to give her more room to pass.
I don’t. I remain solid until she slips past me, glancing at me. Her red hair is down and loose, glaring at me like a warning sign.
Cliff’s arrival saved me just in time.
Stopped me from hissing out the words: “Me. You should be fucking worried about me.”