“I could kiss you right now,” I say to her, reaching to gently pat her cheek.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” she says, pushing off her knees to stand. “And save the kissing for Bo.” She snickers, walking toward the door.
CHAPTER 26
Twenty Weeks Pregnant. Baby is the size of a banana.
I’mfrozen,standingonthe front step. I’ve been here for enough time that a child riding their bike outside has now passed behind me twice.
It is deceptively nice for March—a fool’s spring, if you will. Fellow Canadians will ditch the heavy winter jackets and boots and inevitably fall into a deep, dark depression when the snow returns someday next week. Every year, we’re shocked by such a thing—as if the collective memory develops amnesia. But I like that about us humans. How willfully blind we can be to the gloomy realities ahead.
In reality, we aren’t safe until April. Or maybe even until after my birthday, in May.
Still, at least I’m notliterallyfrozen on the front step—dreading meeting Bo’s dad.
While I was at work today, Bo picked his dad up from the airport. He’s staying with us for four days before he goes back to France, enough time to see his son ring in his thirtieth birthday. Bo, on the night we met, called his father, Robert, his best friend. He’s also his only living family member. So zero pressure to impress the guy. Nope, none whatsoever.
He’s going to love you.
Damn, I sure hope so.
When the little girl on her bike passes a third time, eyeing me suspiciously, I decide enough is enough.
“Hello?” I call out, stepping inside the front entryway.
I hear music coming from the dining room and the electric whirlof some sort of machine from the kitchen. A stand mixer, I think. Do we even own one of those? God, I should probably offer to cook some time.
I shrug off my jacket and shoes and follow the sounds of laughter coming from the kitchen.
“Hi, just me,” I say, turning the corner. In the kitchen is the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen… and his son.
Holy mother of—No, actually.Holy father of Bo.
“Hey!” Bo says, circling the counter to stand next to me, smiling brightly as always. “Win, this is my dad, Robert. Dad, this is Win.” Bo pronouncesRobertwith a French accent, and I nearly swoon. There’s not enough oxygen in this room. He should have prepared me. I should have requested family photos.
“It issogood to meet you, Winnifred,” Robert says in a thick accent, lifting his flour- and dough-covered hands in the air. “I’d shake your hand, but I’ve been kneading bread.”
“Dad went to make himself a sandwich and saw we were out of bread,” Bo says, bending to speak into my ear. “Ididoffer to go to the store.”
Robert has all of Bo’s similarities in height, natural charm, and build, but his hair and beard are peppered black and grey and trimmed shorter. They also have different eyes in shape and colour—Bo’s wide hazel eyes to Robert’s smaller deep brown. The deep lines and creases around Robert’s lips and eyes speak to a man, like his son, who loves to laugh. Ifthisis a sneak preview of what Bo will look like in thirty-ish years, then I better get to work locking that shitdown.
Too bad Bo doesn’t have the accent.
Though… I wonder if he’d speak French in bed if I asked nicely.
Oh my god, Win. Focus! It’s your turn to speak!
“It’s good to meet you too,” I squeak, swallowing. “Bo’s told me so many wonderful things. And please, call me Win or Fred.”
I don’t miss Bo’s crooked smirk when I offer his father the nickname that, until very recently, I was not fond of. I don’t miss, either, the warm affection in Robert’s eyes as they land on my stomach.
Robert picks up the ball of dough, passing it back and forth between his hands, an eyebrow quirked toward his son, the same lopsided smile under his moustache that I know well. “He also speaks of you very,verywell…”
Bo clears his throat. “How was work?” he asks, walking behind me toward the dining room.
I peek my head around the corner to watch as he pulls his work chair away from his desk and brings it over to me. “Oh, uh, fine.” I say as he gestures for me to sit. My feet werekillingme, but this might be a tad over the top. “The to-go guy came back,” I say, giving in and sitting.
“That’s the third time this week!” Bo says excitedly.
