Her eyes widen when she realizesI can see her. She rises slowly, her eyes flickering between me and the door, contemplating making a run for the stairs.
I try again, pulling a bag of chocolate chips out of the baking cabinet and holding them up. “What aboutchocolate chippancakes?”
Green-brown eyes flash with excitement, making her decision even harder. She inches forward another half a step, coming into full view as she sizes me up. Her face is serious as she watches me measure out the pancake mix. Her eyes drop to my tattoos, and I see the way her eyes linger on the spiderweb on my hand.
The weight of her gaze is heavy, and my heart beats harder.
Close up, I can see she looks like her mother. At first glance, Remi is the spitting image of me, same dark blonde hair, green-brown eyes,but Briar is there too… I can see her in the way Remi’s sizing me up as a threat.
“Who are you?”
Ouch.
“My name is Koen.”
She sniffs, and I can’t tell if the sound is approval or dismissal. I’m getting the sense that Remi is hard to impress.
“Are you friends with Liam?” She tilts her head to the side as she awaits my answer, in a perfect imitation of myself.It’s unnerving.
“He’s my brother.” I fight the mild irrational jealousy that rears up whenmy own daughteris vetting me up against my brother. How he’s already managed to weasel his way into her good graces.
Remi visibly relaxes, wandering to my side of the kitchen island to closer inspect my work on the pancakes. “You guys talk funny.”
I can’t help the chuckle that escapes me. “That’s because I’m Irish.” Of all of us, my accent is the strongest. My siblings were young when we moved to Boston from Ireland; their accents have a tendency to come and go, but mine always had a tendency to linger. “You don’t like it?”
She thinks for a moment, holding my full attention. “No, I do,” she decides. “I wish I were Irish too.”
I look down at her, studying her face, memorizing her blonde curls, the fractured eyes that mirror my own. “I think you might be,” I say softly.
Remi beams in response. “You think so?” she asks excitedly.
I let out a small laugh as I nod, “I do.” An unexpected rush of warmth floods through me at Remi’s approval.
“I think I might need help.” Changing the subject, I frown down at the pancake mix in front of me. “It’s still pretty lumpy.” I look over at Remi. “How are your stirring skills?”
“They’re good.” She nods, her face deadly serious.
“You’re sure?” Narrowing my eyes, I feign uncertainty. “I don’t let just anyone into my kitchen. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
She furrows her brow, meeting my eyes, hers coming alive with the challenge. “I can do it,” she practically growls, and I let out another laugh.
“Okay, you’re hired.”
I drag one of the island stools over to our side and pause when she holds up her arms, waiting for me to lift her onto it.
Oh.
I swallow hard, bending down and carefully lifting her, wondering if she can feel my hands shaking. She’s so tiny—so breakable. And once she’s on the stool, I drive myself mad—continually hovering around her, checking to ensure she’s not about to slide off or crash to the floor.
Remi stirs the batter, and I finish up the omelettes before prepping the griddle for pancakes.
“Alright, let’s see how you did.” I peek over her shoulder. There’s battereverywhere. On the counter, on Remi, and somehow even on me, but admittedly, she did a good job. “I think they’re ready to cook.” I peek at her over my shoulder and nearly melt when I find her looking up at me. Clearing my throat, I ask her, “I’ll flip, you chip?” Then I hand her the bag of chocolate chips.
She takes the bag and grins, dropping a chip on her tongue with a smug look that makes me think that somehow she planned this.
“Okay!”
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