He brought his lips to her forehead. “If you want to leave the decision in my hands, that’s fine, too. I can handle it and not even tell you how, if you want.” His voice was gruff with restraint. She suspected he wasn’t used to asking for permission for something like this.
Roarke always took charge. Did what needed to be done. But he understood the delicacy of the situation and, more importantly, knew that Emmy’s heart was at stake.
Appreciation spread through her. She didn’t just need Roarke for herself—she needed him for Emmy, too. She smiled and fought a devilish grin. “We both know how you’d choose to deal with him.”
He shrugged. “Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.”
That brought forth an unexpected laugh.
He pulled her into a hug. “It’s already past noon. Rest, shower, do whatever you want. Striker will be here around supper, and we can talk more then.”
She slipped out of his arms and reached for her coffee. “Thank you. For now, I’ve got some coloring to do.”
He grinned, and she made her way toward the living room. Seeing her, Emmy beamed and scooted over, patting the rug beside her.
This was exactly what Laine needed right now.
Chapter
Nineteen
“Ain’t this feckin’ cozy.” Wraith rinsed a plate and passed it to Striker, who put it in the dishwasher.
Roarke snorted as he placed the condiments back in the fridge. Wraith had been born in Scotland and moved to the US as a teenager, when his mom remarried. His accent was subtle but at times, it came out more strongly. Usually when he wanted to accentuate it—or when he was pissed.
“You’re such a douche,” Striker said, shaking his head. “Somehow I forget how cheesy your accent is until I see you in person.”
“Cheesy? You wish you had my accent. Maybe you’d get laid for once.”
Roarke couldn’t help but laugh. Good thing Laine was putting Emmy to bed. She didn’t need to listen to these two bicker.
They’d made burgers and salad for dinner, and Wraith had brought a carton of ice cream. Needless to say, the giant had won over the miniature queen.
Striker groaned. “Don’t tell me you’re still using that line.”
“It works,” Wraith retorted.
“What line?” Roarke blurted, then instantly regretted it. He sensed where this was headed.
“You haven’t heard it?” Striker asked. “Let me do the honors: ‘Do you have any Scottish in you? No? Do you want some?’”
Roarke belted out a laugh. “Does that actually work?” he asked Wraith.
Wraith’s expression morphed with humor. “Unless you’ve heard it with a Scottish accent, you can’t comment.”
“Roarke?” Laine’s soft voice floated through the doorway.
She stood with her hand on the edge of the frame. An oversized pink sweatshirt covered her upper body, and black leggings enclosed her thighs. Her face was free of makeup and her hair was pulled back into a braid.
Earlier, he’d taken her to a local store to buy some clothes since they’d left London in such a hurry. Luckily, they’d shipped everything else before returning to the duplex yesterday, but she and Emmy had needed personal items.
Flicking the dishrag he’d used to wipe the counter into the sink, he crossed the room. Lacing his fingers with hers, he led her to the office near the front of the house, where they could talk in private.
“Did Emmy go down all right?” he asked, pulling her onto his lap in the armchair in the corner of the room.
She leaned against his chest, her fingers toying with his T-shirt. “Yeah, she fell right asleep.” She inhaled a deep breath and tethered her gaze to his. The intensity and determination waiting there made his shoulders tense.
“I need to call Cameron.”
