“We’re in our late twenties,” Julian grumbles, reaching for a plate to fill, and most of the table chuckles.
“For a dad of a beautiful little ballerina,” Isabelle says, “you’re a party pooper.”
“Party pooper?” Gracie asks, looking up at her Auntie Isa.
“I’ll tell you later,” Isa tells her just before sending a glare Julian’s way. “Next year, we’reallgoing trick-or-treating with Grace.”
“Yes! Daddy, yes!”
“Fine,” Julian concedes. “We’ll all go trick-or-treatingnext year.”
“Yay!” Gracie claps her little hands and everyone smiles with her.
Finally, Julian cracks a smile at his little girl—the only one he has thesoftestspot for, aside from all of us, I think.
I hold the rib to my mouth to take a bite, and my eyes catch Natalia’s across the table, doing the same. I send her a wink and she rolls her beautiful eyes.
We eat our late Halloween dinner like this, with quick stolen glances in between the laughter and conversation.
It’s one o’clock in the morning by the time Isabelle and Lana are asleep on the couch, Julian left with Grace sleeping in his arms around eleven thirty, and Christian is cleaning the grill while the rest of us wipe down the tables and do the dishes.
I start bringing in dishes to clean and put in the dishwasher while Isabelle snores in the background. Lana groans, calling for Christian as Natalia struts in, looking like a true fairy as I dry off my hands. Their voices come in through the back door, but I don’t bother joining.
I follow behind Natalia down a tiny hall, scared she might pull an Irish goodbye. “Nat, wait.”
She slows and sighs, turning. “I’m fine,” she breathes. “I just have to pee.”
“Okay.” I nod. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. I’ll be right out.” She slides in and closes the door.
“Okay,” I murmur as the lock turns.
I shove my hands in the pockets of my blue pants and lean against the wall, my foot tapping at the pristine floors. I don’t think I can help this thing I’ve got for wanting to always help and protect her. Save her.
Natalia doesn’t need me. She doesn’t need a hero saving her because she isn’t a damsel in distress. But is it so bad that I want to be aroundforher. Let her fight her battles but be the one she calls for back-up?
I don’t want to be the overbearing dick of a man who acts like a bodyguard.
“Fuck,” I mutter and run my hands through my perfectly-styled hair, ruining the strands.
The bathroom door opens and she walks out, a questioning look in her eyes. “Rowan, what’s wrong?”
I huff. “Nothing.”
“If you don’t want me to lie to you,” she says, “then don’t lie to me. I hate liars.”
“You already hate me,” I muse.
“Yeah, and I’ll just add lying to my list of reasons why.”
I smirk. “What’s number one?”
“Your face.” She stifles a smile.
I chuckle, low and deep in my chest.
“So?”
