“That’s a wee bit crooked,” she commented from the chaise where she enjoyed a glass of lemonade. “A little to the left.”
“To the left? I’m not certain. I think it should go to the right,” Tom added, egging her on from where he splayed across the floor, trying to measure the strips while I battled with the paste.
“It’s perfectly centered. Anyone with the tiniest bit of common sense could see that.”
“Is it?” he questioned, an amused note ringing in his voice.
“If it’s not, it is because it was cut incorrectly. And that would make it your fault.”
“No, the cut looks straight to me,” Sorcha said. “Maybe it’s yer eyes. Do ye need spectacles?”
“I don’t need spectacles,” I insisted at precisely the same moment that Tom said, “You would look handsome with spectacles.”
“Agh, boys. Save yer flirting for later. Yer too sweet. Gives me a toothache.”
“Well, if you don’t want to see it, you could go provide your helpful commentary elsewhere. Perhaps Jamie would enjoy it.”
“I dinnae know what yer talking aboot,” she said with a huff. As though she didn’t duck behind the nearest table or grab the closest cushion every time she saw him. I suspected he wasn’t entirely indifferent to her either, given the flush of his cheeks each time he saw her. Some men preferred the company of both men and women, I knew that, but I didn’t know him well enough to confirm he was one of them.
“He is sure to notice when there’s a babe about. And it’s not as though he’ll believe Xander or I popped it out,” Tom mumbled, one end of the measuring tape between his teeth as he pressed the other end down with a foot.
“‘Popped it oot’? How do ye think bairns come into the world?”
Tom spit out the tape and began to cut. “I’m certain I don’t know the details. And the few that I do know, I wish I didn’t.”
“Men,” she humphed. “Yer mother didnae teach ye?”
“I do my best to forget absolutely everything my mother taught me. It’s in the best interests of myself, everyone around me, and society at large to do so.”
He rose to all fours to roll out another length of the silk paper, a silvery grey damask he’d liked. I took a break to appreciate the view. Unfortunately, the paper I was hanging chose that moment to flop off the wall and onto my head.
I was met with nothing but laughter when I finally freed myself from the sticky prison—with no help from anyone else, I might add.
“Ugh! You fight with it.” I half tossed the paste brush at Tom’s still laughing face.
“That’s what ye get for yer ogling,” Sorcha called as I stomped out of the room to remove the glue from my hair before it caused irrevocable damage of some sort.
Some half an hour later,I returned to the drawing room to find half the panels I had been struggling with hung.
The pattern didn’t line up, and I was certain it would make my eye twitch until the end of time, but the gesture was kind and I didn’t have to be the one to hang it.
There, on the settee, lay Sorcha. Tom knelt on the floor at her side, a hand on her belly with hers overtop. “Does it hurt? The kicking?”
“Just when the lad hits an organ. He likes to aim for my bladder.”
“He?”
“Only a man would cause this much trouble.”
Tom chuckled.
“May I?” I interrupted, and both of them turned to notice me. Sorcha nodded and Tom scooted to one side.
I settled beside her as Tom had and she grabbed my hand and placed it on the curve of her belly. Beneath layers of fabric and skin, I felt it. A tiny thump met my hand. Again and again, the babe made its presence known, thumping away. My heart swelled.
I met Sorcha’s gaze and, though I couldn’t have named it, there was something in her expression.
“Tom, would you give us a moment?” she asked.
