Well, shit. Probably because the douchebag kept her and Laine locked in the basement at night. He stood and rested a hand on her head. “Is your mommy sleeping?”
“Yup. I can go wake her up.”
She turned, but Roarke caught her shoulder. “Hold up, shorty. Let’s let her sleep, all right? I’m sure I’ve got something you can eat.”
He walked to the kitchen with the pip-squeak right on his heels. Laine had been older than Emmy when he met her, but he could see the resemblance between Emmy and Laine as a ten-year-old.
He went to the fridge and scratched his head. He had eggs and leftover pizza. He didn’t even have an apple, let alone cereal or anything. Fucking pathetic.
Emmy poked her head under his arm. “Um, you don’t have any food.”
He grunted. “Do you like eggs?”
“I guess I’d better,” she quipped, with a devilish grin.
He snorted. All right, the kid was funny. He took out the carton. At least he had half a dozen. It’d be enough for breakfast, but he’d have to order some items for the remainder of their stay. He didn’t want to chance taking them to the grocery store.
“Why’d you call me shorty?” she asked, right at his six, as he went to the small island.
He sighed. Normally his mornings were quiet and peaceful. At least Emmy was cute. “’Cause you’re short.”
She scrunched up her face. “Well you’re like a giant, so that doesn’t really make sense.”
He chuckled and took out a fork and a bowl. He cracked the eggs then glanced down to see Emmy still standing beside him. “Want to help?”
“Yes, please!” she said, hopping up and down.
He reached for her, and she held out her arms. He lifted her to sit on the counter then passed her the fork. “Serious business, here. Mix ’em up.”
Leaving Emmy to stir, he added coffee to the machine and turned it on. When he returned, she’d gotten a little on the counter but hadn’t made a mess. “Nice job.”
“I’m a pro,” she said triumphantly.
He heated a skillet and poured the eggs in.
“How come I’ve never met you before?”
The question punched him in the gut. He worked his jaw back and forth, searching for an explanation that’d make sense to a five-year-old.
“Mom said you’re her friend,” she continued. “And you knew her when she was a kid.”
“That’s right.” He cleared his throat. “I was best friends with your mom’s brother.”
“Uncle Ollie?” she asked, her eyebrows up again.
Roarke’s heart leapt into his throat. Jesus, he missed Twist. He’d have been such a fun uncle. Probably the best. That he wasn’t here to be part of his niece’s life? That shit hurt. Laine was clearly keeping Ollie’s memory alive, though.
He could help with that—help Emmy know her uncle through stories and memories. By being present for her and Laine. The familiar cowardice that’d made him run after Christmas six years ago crept back into his head.
How could he be enough? He was never fucking home. Despite that hard truth, the thought of walking away from Laine again, especially after meeting Emmy, seemed impossible.
“Yup.” He tossed the eggs around, breaking them up. “I was around him a lot, so your mom and I became friends.”
Emmy pursed her lips. “But how come I’ve never met you before?”
Because I was a fucking coward.
“I work a lot. Your mom moved and met your dad. Life just kind of—” Movement at the corner of his eye made his heart pitter-patter.
