“Fuck,” I whisper, scrubbing my hands over my face, the reminder hitting hard enough to suck the air from my lungs, to wipe my smile off my face.
Because somehow thinking about that hurts a lot fucking more today than it did yesterday, than it did when I was assuring Finn this would all be fine.
“Enough,” I whisper and shove that thought—that worry—out of my head. I make my way downstairs, the demon kittens weaving around my ankles, doing their level best to end my season early by tripping me.
I make it to the first floor unscathed, walk down the hall.
The scent of coffee and something sweet lingers in the air.
Then voices reach my ears.
Chloe’s chatter coming a mile a minute.
Finn’s quiet replies.
My pulse speeds, thundering through my veins, and I take the last two steps slower than I should, looking through the opening, watching the pair.
And knowing I’m going to committhismoment to memory too.
Finn standing at the stove wearing my hoodie. It dwarfs her, stopping at mid-thigh, and I hope—fuckinghope—she’s not wearing anything under it.
She probably is, though.
Because she’s responsible.
I tear my eyes from those lush thighs between which I spent some of my favorite moments last night, and see she’s barefoot, one hip cocked as she flips a pancake.
Chloe is perched on her stool next to her, talking so fast half the words blur together.
“And then Joan of Freaking Arc?—”
I chuckle.
Finn looks up, her cheeks flushing instantly, her teeth pressing into her bottom lip, her eyes telling me that last night is front and center inhermind too.
She smiles and it’s a little shy. “Morning.”
“Morning.” I move toward her, lean down, and—very aware of Chloe watching me—I brush my lips over Finn’s.
Then I turn to my daughter, kiss the top of her head.
“What are my favorite girls up to?”
Chloe looks at me. Then at Finn.
Then I watch her accept what I just silently communicated with all the aplomb of her typical four-year-old self. “We’re making pancakes, Daddy!”
“Yeah?”
“Finn madecinnamonpancakes.”
“Wow, I didn’t know that was a thing.”
“It is athing,”Finn teases. “A delicious one.”
“I can’t wait to try them.”
“What shape do you want?” Chloe asks. “We tried to make a dolphin but that didn’t go well”—a nonplussed nod at a lumpy shape on her plate—“now we’re making Olive and Pear.”
