She lets out a sigh, one of those exasperated ones no four-year-old should be capable of. “Isn’t that what I said?”
I glance over at Mum, hoping she’ll throw me a lifeline here, but I couldn’t be more wrong. She’s doubled over in laughter, practically in stitches. Great.
“Oh, this is payback, dear,” Mum gasps between breaths, wiping her eyes. “It’s like watching you thirty years ago. Minus the princess thing.”
This kills me. Isla asking for all the normal things I can’t give her. A pet, a real home, the kind of stability every kiddeserves. I doubt Mum’s keen on us carting a cat back and forth to her place every two weeks, but even if she didn’t mind, it’s not fair to the damn animal.
This isn’t the first time I’ve realized my job just doesn’t work for us anymore. It was tough when Isla was a baby, but the money was decent, and her mother was still around. For a while, anyway. Long enough to fool myself into thinking it might all work out. Except now it’s just the two of us.
Fuck. I need to get out of my head. There’s work to be done, and it sure as hell won’t magically finish itself while I sit here feeling sorry for myself.
I glance at the list I scrawled on a scrap of paper earlier—patch the hole in the living room wall, finish painting Isla’s room, replace the leaky kitchen tap.
“I’m gonna get to work,” I mutter more to myself than anyone else.
I head straight to Isla’s room first. I promised her a pink room, herprincess castle, and I intend to make good on that.
As I lay out the drop cloth and pop open the paint can, Isla’s giggles float up the stairs, followed by a loud thud. “Everything all right down there?” I call out.
“We’re building a fort!” Isla yells back.
The sound of her laughter cuts through the heaviness in my chest. The house might not be perfect yet, but it’s a start for both of us.
I’m finishing the second coat of paint when Isla pads into the room, her favorite stuffed rabbit clutched in one hand. She plops down on the drop cloth, careful not to touch the wet walls, and tilts her head to look up at me.
“Daddy, can we invite Miss Lucy over?”
The question throws me. I glance down, wiping paint off my hands. “Why would we do that?”
“She’s nice,” Isla says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in theworld. “And she said we could ask her for anything. Remember?”
“Lucy’s got her own things to do,” I say. “She’s busy running the café.”
Isla doesn’t look convinced. “But I like her. And I think she likes you.”
I huff out a laugh. “Isla, just because someone’s nice doesn’t mean?—”
“She smiled at you,” she interrupts, as if that’s all the proof she needs.
I shake my head, trying not to let the heat creep into my face. “Go on, love. You’ve got fort-building to finish.”
As she skips out of the room, I lean back on my heels, staring at the now pink walls. Invite Lucy over? What kind of idea was that?
I haven’t let a woman close to usever. Haven’t even looked at one, honestly. What’s the point? It’s not like I’ve got time for dating with my schedule. Two weeks on the rig, two weeks home, trying to make up for lost time with my daughter. That’s my focus. That’s all I’ve got room for.
Besides, the last time I let someone in, it damn near destroyed me. Isla’s mum left a mark I’ll probably never get rid of. That same mark is on Isla, too, even if she’s too young to remember. I can’t risk that again.
So, no. I’m not letting my mind drift into unrealistic fantasies of someone new stepping into our world. I’m silencing that thought before it ever even starts.
eight
LUCY
I’m leaning against the windowsill of my childhood home. The sun is sinking lower, painting the sky in shades of gold and pink, while the hills beyond glow in the warm light. The scent of something roasted and hearty wafts in from the kitchen.
Mum’s laughter spills out from somewhere behind me, followed by the clatter of plates and Dad’s teasing reply. Not my biological dad—he passed away when I was just a baby—but the only dad I’ve ever known. He’s been here for as long as I can remember. To me, he’s just Dad.
This is cozy. It’s home.
