Chapter 28
Dominic
Iroll onto my back, groaning as I drape my forearm over my face to shield my eyes from the light pouring into the room. I was so bone-tired that when I got out of the shower I didn’t even bother closing the blinds; I just crawled straight into bed and passed out.
I glance over at the clock on my bedside table and see it’s half past ten. “Shit,” I mumble under my breath as I toss back the covers and climb out of bed. I never sleep this late; I have Lil’ Peach to care for.
I grab a pair of faded jeans with rips on both knees off the coat hanger in my wardrobe and slip them on. I have to finish the lawns this morning before the midday sun becomes unbearable.
I’m still zipping them up as I leave the room, and when I hear muffled voices coming from the kitchen, I head in that direction.
“D!” Peach screams the second I step inside.
She barrels towards me with her little arms raised, and as soon as she’s close enough, I bend and scoop her up.
She squeals when I toss her into the air before hugging her to my chest. She wraps her arms around my neck, like a koala. “D, sweepy head,” she giggles.
I chuckle as I ruffle her curls, before my eyes automatically search for Emily. She’s by the sink, watching us, her hand pressed to her chest again.
She’s wearing that look, the soft one that grips my damn heart in a fist every time I catch it. It’s the kind of look that makes me want things I know I shouldn’t.
“Morning,” she chirps. “I got the supplies. Thank you for doing that, it was very—”
I frown, holding my hand up, stopping her midsentence. “If you’re going to say what I think you’re going to, then don’t,” I grumble.
She gasps. “What did you think I was going to say? That it was sweet?”
My frown deepens. “I told you not to say it. I’m. Not. Sweet,” I growl, emphasising each word.
“I was actually going to say it was a real arsehole move.”
I bark out a deep laugh. “Liar.”
She arches one of her perfectly sculptured eyebrows. “Can you prove that?” she retorts with so much sass I want to bend her over my knee and spank that sweet arse of hers.
She digs her hand into her pocket and pulls out the Chapstick. “And thanks for this. Caramel is my favourite. I lost the one I used to have, and never got around to replacing it.”
You didn’t lose it; I stole it.
I don’t tell her that, obviously, but I feel like I’ve somewhat redeemed myself by getting her another one.
When she uncaps the Chapstick and glides it over her plump lips, I suck in a sharp breath because I want to kiss that caramel-scented mouth.
I’ve been avoiding Emily wherever I can. We haven’t spoken about what happened the other night. I watch her through the kitchen window as she waters the plants I stole from her last home.
I’ve done some despicable things in my lifetime, but stealing has never been one of them—even during times of desperation—until her. The flowers … the Chapstick.
What’s next, claiming a pair of her lacy underwear off the clothesline and stuffing them under my pillow? I groan at the thought. She’s unknowingly turned me into a fucking kleptomaniac.
Forcing my gaze away from the back yard, I continue rinsing the dishes in the sink and loading them into the dishwasher. Something has to give sooner or later. I can still feel her on my fingertips and taste her on my tongue.
I’m pulled from my daze when I hear the back screen door open, then close.
“Lil’ Peach,” I hear Emily call out. “Peach, there’s a pussy cat in the backyard. Do you want to come see it?”
I scrub my hand down my face when the word pussy leaves her mouth. It drags my thoughts right back to her and what happened in this very spot.
Yes, yes, I do.
Not the one in the backyard, though, the one between those luscious legs of yours. I’ve touched it and had a small taste, but I’ve yet to see it in all its magnificent glory. I’ve yet to devour it like it’s my death row meal.
“Where pussy?” Lil’ Peach screeches as she comes barrelling into the kitchen, her big brown eyes bright with what could best be described as excitement.
I cringe when the word pussy comes out of my sweet baby girl’s mouth, even though she’s referring to the four-legged kind. It’s because my mind is in the gutter right now, but it still sounded all kinds of wrong.
I watch Emily rummage through the pantry before pulling out a can of tuna. She moves to the next cupboard and grabs two small plastic bowls.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Feeding the cat and giving it some water,” she says, tilting her head like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “It’s obviously a stray and probably hungry.”
I move back to the window and glance into the yard, seeing a big fucking round ball of white and grey fur sprawled in the sun. Its legs twist and bend at impossible angles as it meticulously licks a paw, then rubs it over its face, its tail flicking lazily behind it.
“It doesn’t look like a stray to me,” I deadpan.
Emily pauses as she opens the tuna by tugging on the ring pull. “And how did you work that one out, Einstein?”
I arch a brow at her sass. “It’s morbidly obese to begin with.”
She rolls her eyes, and a smile tugs at my lips.
“Where pussy cat?” Lil’ Peach repeats. I scoop her into my arms and point at it through the window. “Pussy,” she shrieks, and I find myself cringing again.
“It’s a cat,” I grumble, and I hear Emily chuckle.
My gaze flicks back to her, and there’s an amused smile curving her lips as she uses a fork to empty the tin of tuna into one of the bowls.
“It might be pregnant,” she eventually says. “That could explain the size.”
I glance back out the window. “The fact that it’s now licking its own balls has me doubting that assumption,” I mutter, shaking my head.
“Oh, it’s a boy?”
“It appears so.”
“Maybe it moves from yard to yard, and all the neighbours feed it.”
I smirk. “Judging by the way you’re already fussing over it, I’m starting to think you want to sign up for its loyalty program.”
She laughs, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Shut up.”
I chuckle and step back as she moves past me with the other bowl. Holding it under the tap, she adds a splash of water.
She pauses and looks up at me. “Do cats drink water? Or should I give it milk? I’ve never had a pet before.”
“For starters, it’s not your pet,” I state. “And secondly, I have no clue. But a little calcium can’t hurt. He’s basically a fur-covered beach ball on toothpicks, and those legs are going to need all the help they can get.” I roll my lips when her eyes narrow.
“That’s mean.”
“No, mia tortina, that’s the truth.”
She tips out the water and turns in a huff, heading for the fridge to grab the carton of milk. When she’s done, she snatches the bowl of tuna and starts towards the back door.
Lil’ Peach is still in my arms, so I follow. She pauses at the screen, both hands full, so I reach around her and push it open. She glances back at me with that sweet fucking smile of hers, and I grind my teeth in annoyance.
“After you,” I mutter, trying to sound casual, as I follow her outside, keeping a careful distance.
Emily moves with a kind of effortless care, like she’s done this a thousand times. My eyes are glued to her tight arse, bewitched by the hypnotic swing of her hips.
She squats gracefully, setting the bowls in front of the cat. “Pussy cat,” Peach whines, reaching out with her grabby hands and trying to wiggle out of my hold.
“Let the cat eat first, then you can pet it,” I tell her, shifting her on my hip.
The cat doesn’t seem to mind the audience. It dives into the tuna like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered, and I pretend to be focused on Lil’ Peach, while my thoughts are everything but.
Emily stands to full height and places her hand on her chest. “Oh, look, the poor thing is starving.”
“It’s not starving, Em. It’s a pig. If that thing gets any fatter, you’ll have to roll it around like a furry beach ball.”
She gasps. “That is mean. He’s homeless.”
“Homeless? He’s a freeloader who is using those giant, sad eyes to con everyone into feeding its disgusting little habit.”
Emily shakes her head, trying not to laugh. “You’re horrible.”
“Pussy cat,” Peach says again, reaching out for Emily this time, so I pass her over. The cat isn’t skittish at all. It seems entirely at ease around humans, which only clarifies my earlier claim. This animal is no stray.
Emily crouches back down with Lil’ Peach in her arms. The cat has already devoured the entire can of tuna and is now lapping up the milk.
She grasps Lil’ Peach’s tiny hand and gently guides it over the cat’s back, running it along its fur. Again, I’m struck by how patient and kind she is with my niece.
“We should name it,” I hear Emily say, and I roll my eyes.
“It probably already has a name,” I grumble. “Probably several. The entire neighbourhood has more than likely named him.”
She glances at me over her shoulder and purses her lips. “Well, if that’s the case, we have to name him too. He can have his own special identity when he’s in our yard.”
Our yard. Why do I love that she said our so much?
I smirk. “How about Fat Cat, or Chubster, or Sir Snacks-a-Lot?”
Emily bursts out laughing. “You’re awful.”
“Fat Cat,” Peach squeals, clapping her hands together.
“I was thinking, Babooshka,” Emily says. “But we can call him Fat Cat for short.”
“Babooshka?” I ask with a raised brow because that’s a stupid fucking name.
“Yeah, like the Kate Bush song.”
I shake my head. I have no idea what song she’s talking about.
She stands, bringing Peach with her, and starts rocking her hips from side to side as she spins them both in a circle. “Babooshka, Babooshka, Babooshka, ya-ya,” she sings.
My niece throws her head back and giggles with delight. “I dance too, Emmy.”
Emily sets her on her feet and reaches for her little hands. The way my baby girl beams when they start moving again hits me straight in the chest. Her smile is wide, unfiltered, and so pure.
I remember how happy she looked dancing at the Christening with the other kids, spinning around like the world was made just for her. Maybe I should think about getting her lessons or some shit. Something that makes her feel like this more often.
Emily starts singing again, something about sending him scented letters and strange delights. Her voice is just as soft and sweet as her. Despite the ridiculousness of the lyrics, I’m quietly mesmerized. “She signed the letters, all yours, Babooshka, Babooshka, Babooshka, ya-ya.”
I clear my throat and shove my hands into my pockets as my eyes lock on Emily’s lips, tracing the shape of the words all yours.
I shouldn’t be thinking this. I know I shouldn’t. But I can’t help myself.
I wish—more than anything—that she were all mine.