Twenty-Six
THERESA
“No. Just no,”Paris declared, crossing her arms over her chest. She looked at my outfit with the critical eye of a Vogue editor, although she was currently wearing a tutu over her jeans and one rain boot. “You look like a turtle.”
I looked down at my oversized beige sweater. “A turtle? It’s cozy.”
“It’s brown and puffy,” she corrected, blunt as ever. “If you want Patrick to think you’re pretty, you need the pink shirt. Or at least the sparkles.”
I laughed, turning back to the mirror in the hallway. Four months ago, Paris wouldn’t have cared what I wore. Four months ago, her observations were limited to factual statements about death and absence that broke my heart daily. Now? She was critiquing my fashion choices and playing matchmaker, both terrifying and wonderful.
“Patrick thinks I’m pretty even in a turtle sweater,” I told her, smoothing my hair.
“That’s because he loves you,” Paris said, with the absolute certainty only a five-year-old possesses. She picked up her plastic tiara from the console table and adjusted it on her dark curls. “Like Prince Eric loves Ariel even when she wears that weird bag-dress.”
I froze, my hand on the banister. “He... does?”
“Duh,” she said, rolling her eyes. “He gave you the last piece of pepperoni pizza last week. That was the biggest piece, Mom. He loves you more than pizza.”
My chest swelled. She was right. In the hierarchy of a child’s world, giving up the biggest slice of pizza was the ultimate declaration of devotion.
“Well,” I said, grabbing my purse. “I guess I should go put on the pink lipstick then. Just in case.”
“Good choice,” Paris approved. “And wear the shoes that goclick-clack. Theclomp-clompones are for the garden.”
I was halfway up the stairs to change my shoes when the doorbell rang.
Paris gasped, her eyes lighting up. “He’s here! Do I look like a princess? Is my tiara straight?”
“You look beautiful,” I promised her.
She scrambled to the door and yanked it open before I could get back down the stairs.
Patrick stood on the porch, looking impossibly handsome in a leather jacket and dark jeans, with a small duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His face lit up the moment he saw Paris.
“Your Majesty,” he said with a sweeping bow. “To what do I owe the honor?”
Paris giggled—a bright, bubbling sound that still felt like a gift every time I heard it. “I’m not a queen yet, silly! Just a princess. Mom is putting on theclick-clackshoes because she wants you to think she’s pretty.”
I groaned, covering my face with my hands as I reached the bottom of the stairs. “Paris!”
Patrick looked up, his blue eyes dancing with amusement as they swept over me. “Well, the princess has excellent taste,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “But you look pretty, regardless.”
“See?” Paris whispered loudly, not whispering at all. “He likes you more than pizza.”
“Go find your brothers,” I told her, giving her a gentle nudge toward the kitchen, my face heating. “Michael said something about ice cream sundaes if you guys actually finish cleaning up the playroom.”
“Ice cream!” Paris took off like a shot, her tutu fluttering behind her.
The hallway grew quiet as Patrick stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
“So,” he said, stepping closer and sliding his free arm around my waist. “Click-clack shoes and more than pizza, hmm?”
“My daughter has no filter,” I admitted, leaning into him. “She also called my sweater a turtle.”
“A very sexy turtle,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my temple.
“You’re incorrigible.” I pulled back slightly, noticing the bag on his shoulder for the first time. “What’s with the bag? Are you moving in?”
