Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
Aurora
I have godchildren. I know how to act with them. I know how to talk to them, but I’m still nervous as Deacon’s driver pulls up in front of the townhouse.
It’s a huge building. I can’t believe one family lives in such a big house. And not a family, one parent and one child.
I get out of the car and stare up at the five stories. In London the place would be worth a fortune. I can’t imagine it’s cheap in New York. I make my way up the steps to the front door, pull my shoulders back, and press the bell.
I hear a squeal, which settles my nerves a little. Someone sounds excited rather than sulky. That’s got to be good.
Deacon opens the door, beaming at me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so relaxed. My gaze sweeps down his body—a tight navy t-shirt, faded jeans, and his bare feet. Desire stirs in me, but I’m going to have to keep it in check.
“Come in,” he says. “Welcome.”
He holds the door open, and as I pass him, he places a kiss on the top of my head. I press my palm to his chest and then immediately remove it. I don’t know what he’s told Willow and I’m not sure whether I should touch him. I’ve never navigated a situation like this before.
“Willow, Aurora is here.”
Little click-clacks fill the air, like high heels on hard floors.
Deacon chuckles. “She’s ready for you.”
I turn and Willow’s in the hallway, complete with a tiara, a Sleeping Beauty dress, and little-girl heels.
“I’m Aurora,” she says. “What’s your name?”
“Your name’s Aurora?” I ask, shocked. “That’s such a coincidence, because that’s my name too.”
“Some people call me Sleeping Beauty,” she says. “But I prefer Aurora. It’s pretty.”
“You’re pretty,” I reply. “And your dad tells me you’re pretty smart too.”
“You’re British,” she says, squinting at me.
“You’re right.” I smile at her. She’s inquisitive and doesn’t fully trust me, and I kinda like that about her. She should be suspicious.
“Do you live in…” She glances at her dad.
“England,” he supplements for her.
“England?” she asks, turning her attention back at me.
“Usually,” I say. “But I’m living in New York for a few months.”
“Let’s go into the kitchen,” Deacon says, interrupting his daughter’s interrogation of me and placing his hand on my back to guide me.
Willow glides into the back of the house, her tiara leading the way.
“I have presents,” I say, handing him a gift bag.
Willow is craning her neck to see what I just handed to her dad.
“For you too,” I say, as we enter the kitchen. I hand her a bigger bag that has glittery unicorns all over it.
“Thank you,” she says, her eyes dancing with mischief.
Then I cringe. Maybe I should have asked Deacon first. I know some parents are really strict about gift giving. “Is that okay?” I mouth at him.
“Absolutely not,” Deacon booms. “No presents allowed in this house. We run a tight ship.”
I think he’s joking. I turn to Willow to see if she’s upset.
She just rolls her eyes, and I laugh. I wonder how many people roll their eyes at Deacon.
I imagine not many would dare. But this Deacon’s different to the Deacon people at the hotel refer to as Mr. Room 325.
He’s soft. And a little silly. I’ve never seen him look so comfortable.
It’s strange seeing him like this—as a dad. I suppose I got to know him as the grumpy, hot guest. But I’ve learned that’s only a small part of him. And now? Here? I’m seeing more of him. Much more of him. He feels complete in my eyes now. Now he’s a father.
Sadness tugs at me. Will I be incomplete if I can’t ever be a mother?
Would a man like Deacon ever want to be with a woman long term if she couldn’t have children? He’s so comfortable in his role as father, I can’t imagine him willingly giving up the opportunity to have more children.
I guess I don’t need to think about that kind of thing. I’ll be back in the UK, an ocean away, in just a few weeks.
“You didn’t say thank you,” Willow says to her dad. “Manners matter.”
Deacon turns to me. “You’re right. Thank you.” His tone is earnest. “But you really shouldn’t have.”
“It’s only small,” I say. I managed to pop out on my lunch hour and grab a couple of things.
“No one ever gives me gifts,” he says. “It’s nice.”
I grin at him, not able to look away from his stare. “You haven’t opened it yet.”
“I’ll love it,” he says.
I think that’s just about the nicest way anyone’s ever received a gift from me.
“Can I open it, Daddy?” Willow asks, as she slides onto one of the benches around the kitchen table.
The ground floor has doors to one side and a huge open-plan living area and kitchen to the other. It’s big but it’s cozy. I so closely associate Deacon with the hotel that it’s weird seeing him here, his shoes off, making jokes. It feels like it’s two different people.
But judging by the way his jeans cling to his thighs, and his t-shirt stretches across his chest, he’s the Deacon I know. For sure.
“Oh, Daddy, look!” Willow says, as she pulls out a hardback book of fairy tales.
“That looks good,” Deacon says. “We could read it tonight?”
“The whole thing?” Willow asks, her eyes lighting up.
Deacon chuckles. “Nice try. No, not the whole thing. But we can make a start.”
“Aurora could read it, couldn’t she, Daddy?” she asks.
“Well, I’m not sure. She’s our guest. So we’d have to ask her if she wants to.”
“Happy to,” I say.
Willow pulls out a few other things that I bought her. A squidgy ball that sticks to anything you throw it at. A pencil set with a Hello Kitty attached to the end of each pencil. And a notebook with a unicorn horn on it.
“Wow, thank you, Aurora!” she says, as she spreads out her gifts.
“You’ve made a friend for life,” he says. “Can I get you a glass of wine?”
“That would be great.”
“Anything you like in particular?” he asks.
“You chose that Argentinian Malbec we had the other day, which was lovely, so I trust you!” I grin up at him.
He smiles and his gaze slides to his daughter. I can tell he’s not saying what’s on his mind.
And that’s okay.
There’s time.
“You haven’t opened your present, Daddy.”
“Oh yes.” He pours us two glasses of red wine and hands one to me.
Willow’s getting impatient. She slides out from the bench and picks up his gift bag from where he’s left it on the counter. “Here, Daddy. Open it.”
He pokes about in the white tissue paper and pulls out the snow globe. It’s the Manhattan skyline, and it looks a lot like the view from the rooftop where we had dinner the other night.
“I love it!” Willow squeals. “Does it work, Daddy? Turn it upside down.”
His gaze slides to mine as he tips the snow globe upside down. “A memory of an incredible evening. Thank you.”
He leans forward and kisses my cheek.
Willow squeals again. “Daddy, you just kissed her!”
My face flushes with heat. Never has any interaction between Deacon and me been so chaste, but I feel like I’ve been caught dry humping him on the street.
“It’s a beautiful snow globe, isn’t it?” Deacon asks, ignoring her comment about his kiss.
She holds out her hands, ready to be given the snow globe.
“Finish your dinner, then run and wash your hands and then you can hold it, if you’re very careful.”
She nods and starts shoveling food into her mouth. I try not to burst out laughing. She’s going to make herself sick.
“I’m finished, Daddy,” she says.
The nanny comes over and clears her plate straightaway. I wonder if it’s weird for Deacon to have the nanny here all the time. He seems to be so hands-on. The nanny then leads Willow into the back, presumably to wash her hands.
“Have you had your nanny long?” I ask.
“Lucia’s been with us since Willow was born.”
“Wow. That’s so nice. Does she work the entire week, so Willow’s mother has her help as well?
” I deliberately say “Willow’s mother” and not “your ex,” as that’s how he always refers to her.
I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t consider her an ex or because he wants to remind himself that she’s his daughter’s mother.
“Absolutely. We have a different woman at weekends. But I wanted Willow to have that consistency.”
“You’re a good dad,” I say.
“I do the best I can.”
Gently, I touch the back of his arm. I want him to know he’s incredible.
Willow returns, her arms outstretched. “Can I have a turn, Daddy?”
“Sit down and keep a firm grip.”
Willow slides back onto the bench, her face fixed with an expression of determination. She takes the snow globe in both hands and turns it upside down.
“Okay, put it on the table now,” Deacon says.
Willow places it down in front of her, the white flecks of snow falling over the skyline. It looks magical. Just like our date together.
Deacon turns to me. “It’s lovely.”
My chest warms. He’s thinking about that perfect night. No one will ever top a date like that. When I go back home to Chilternshire, there are plenty of nice views, but they’re of rolling countryside and trees. I don’t think there’s a rooftop restaurant in the entire county.
Not that I’d want anyone to try to recreate it. It could only come up short. I’d be forced to compare and that wouldn’t be fair.
When the snow finally settles, Willow reaches for the snow globe again and turns it upside down.
“Last time,” Deacon says. “Then it’s bedtime.”
“I need my hair in a braid,” she says. “And you need the practice.”
“I meant to book into that course,” Deacon mumbles.
“A course?” I ask.
“I’m not very good at doing Willow’s hair. There’s a course in Midtown that teaches hair plaiting. I keep meaning to sign up, but…”
He pulls out his phone and voice notes someone, presumably his assistant, asking them to find a space in his diary.
“Braiding,” Willow corrects him. “You’re in America. You can’t call it plaiting.”
Deacon shoots me a look that says can you believe the sass? And I do my best not to laugh.
“How about I talk you through the basics?” I offer.
“Can you do French braids?” Willow asks.
“They’re my favorite,” I say. “I do my goddaughter’s hair all the time. And my own.”