A car I don’t recognise is parked in the driveway.
But I do recognise the man standing on the front doorstep.
Lauren pointed him out at the wake—he’s an old friend of Mark’s—Ian, and I assume that’s the only reason Mark kept him around after he got together with Cassie.
Neither Lauren nor Cassie like him.
“I just wanted to say hello.” I hear as I grab my bag and walk up the path.
“I’m not up for visitors. Sorry.” Cassie tries to close the door, but he puts his foot in it to stop her.
“Everything okay, Cass?” I ask.
Ian turns and scowls at me.
“Ian was just leaving.”
I really hate this guy.
Mark’s wake was a long time ago, and I’m not worried about making a scene anymore. Cassie’s just way too polite.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m spending the weekend.” Fuck tiptoeing around him just because he was Mark’s friend. I’m about to piss a circle around my girls.
My girls.
The thought of that makes my heart swell.
“You don’t need to be here anymore. They don’t need you. I’m telling you to back off.”
I laugh. “Are you kidding me?”
He pulls his foot out the door and turns to face me. I love this. I’ve got about a foot of height on him and more muscle. I’m not a man who sets out to intimidate others, but I’d do it for free with this guy.
“Mark wouldn’t have wanted you sniffing around Cassie and her kid.”
“But he would have wanted you?” I raise an eyebrow. “Let me spell this out for you. I’ve known Cassie since we were five years old, and I have loved her for most of my life. You might have been friends with Mark, but he gave me his blessing before he died.”
The colour drains from his face. “He … he did not.”
I stab at his chest with my index finger. “He did. And I intend on being here for both Cassie and Sophie. They. Are. Mine.”
He shakes his head. “No, you’re lying.”
“You can believe whatever you want to, but I’m going nowhere. I’ll change jobs if I have to.”
I’m sure Hamilton hospital wouldn’t say no to a surgeon with my skills.
Cassie’s closed the door while all this is going on, and I don’t blame her. She hates confrontation—always did.
His nostrils flare, but he thinks better of continuing the conversation and storms off toward his car.
I turn back and reach for the front door handle, turning it and stepping into the living room.
“Patrick.” Sophie runs and then launches herself into my arms—the standard greeting.
“Hey, princess. Where’s your mother?”
