“Hello,” he said to them. “I’m Patrick. I’m taking your mum to dinner.”
“Why?” Paris asked bluntly.
“Paris—” I started, finally finding my voice and moving to the door.
“Because I asked her,” Patrick said, seemingly unbothered by the interrogation. “And because sometimes grown-ups like tohave conversations without being interrupted by interesting questions from smart children.”
Paris narrowed her eyes but nodded, apparently satisfied with this answer.
Patrick held out the bag he’d been carrying. “I brought something. For all of you. If that’s all right?”
He glanced at me, and I nodded, curious.
He pulled out a small box—fancy chocolates from the look of them—and offered them to Michael. “For helping Theresa these past months. I’ve got six of my own, so I know what an undertaking that is.”
Michael’s protective expression flickered with surprise. He took the chocolates. “That’s... thoughtful.”
“And for the little ones,” Patrick pulled out several packages of colored pencils, the good kind with dozens of colors. “I understand one of you likes to draw?”
Aspen’s eyes went wide. She reached for the pencils, then looked at me for permission.
“It’s okay, baby,” I said.
She took them carefully, cradling them against her chest.
“The rest are for anyone who wants them,” Patrick said, handing the remaining packages to Rome, who accepted them with awe. “Drawing helps when things are hard. Or so I’ve found.”
Austin was watching Patrick with an assessing gaze. “You have six children?”
“I do. Six wee terrors who keep me from getting too comfortable.” Patrick’s smile was gentle. “They’re with their nanny tonight, probably destroying something expensive.”
“How old?” Austin asked.
“Alec’s nine—about your age, I think. Brody’s seven, Carson and Cory are six-year-old twins, Eoin’s four, and Maggie just turned one.”
“That’s a lot of kids,” Rome said, his voice awed.
“Aye, it is. Makes for a loud house. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The easy way he spoke about his children, the understanding in his voice—it seemed to satisfy something in Austin. My oldest son nodded slowly, then went back to his book.
“We should go,” I said, before Paris could launch into another round of questions. “Michael?—”
“We’re fine. Go have your dinner.” Michael’s expression had thawed considerably. “Take your time.”
Patrick offered me his arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, I took it. His warmth radiated through the fabric of his shirt.
“It was good to meet you all,” Patrick said. “Take care of each other.”
We made it to his car before I let out the breath I’d been holding.
“That went better than I expected,” Patrick said, opening my door.
“You brought them gifts. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.” He waited for me to settle in before closing the door and moving around to the driver’s side. “Your brother’s protective. That’s good. You should have good people looking out for you.”
“He probably would have interrogated you more if you hadn’t brought chocolates.”
