“Uh…” Lia peers over her shoulder, “a size seven, please.”
“Hey! That’s close to what I wear! I’m a size six,” my daughter announces proudly.
Lia smiles, and I swear my heart stops thundering in my chest. For a moment, life is suspended in its radiance.
I’m suspended in its radiance.
“So, are you gonna bowl with us? Please?” Amber asks.
That’s when I place my hand on her shoulder. “Sweetheart, if Miss Lia?—”
Lia stands. “You can just call me ‘Lia.’ Doesn’t have to be all formal.”
“Yeah, Dad,” Amber says as she looks up at me.
I chuckle and smooth my hand over my daughter’s hair. “She’s right, though. You’re more than welcome to join us if you don’t want to bowl alone. We only just got here a few minutes ago ourselves.”
She nibbles on that lower lip of hers and I can’t help but to watch the movement. It’s so juicy and plump, and I find myself jealous of her teeth. I want to nibble on it. I want to know what it would taste like.
I can’t get that moment out of my head in the doctor’s office, when Walker admitted to giving her an orgasm and it not working. I want to give her all of the?—
“Sure, I can join you guys. If it’s not too much,” Lia says, ripping me out of my trance.
Thank God.
“Yayyy!” Amber rejoices, and she grabs Lia’s hand. “Come on, I’ll show you where we are.”
Lia points to her shoes. “I just need to?—”
“I’ll grab them,” I say as I reach out and swipe them from the countertop.
She smiles sweetly up at me. “Thanks, Eli.”
“Not a problem.”
Her scent is twinged with something I don’t like. Almost like burned sugar. I try to ignore it. I try to push it off to the side. But once we get her set up and entered onto our digital bowling card, I can’t help but ask as Amber insists on using the bowling ramp herself.
“You doing okay?” I ask as we sit there, watching my daughter put the ramp in place. “In your temporary place?”
“Yeah, it’s fine,” she says a little too quickly.
Okay, that’s the issue. She hates her new place. “You able to get any baking done?”
“Some.”
I recognize these kinds of answers. Reflexive answers. I don’t push, though. If she isn’t ready to talk about it, then we can provide a distraction for her. I learned a long time ago that pressure makes Omegas retreat. Not open up.
Amber, on the other hand, has no such restraint. “You look sad, Lia.”
“Amber,” I attempt to say in a warning voice that I hope doesn’t sound chastising, “maybe Lia’s just tired. She’s a full-time baker, you know. That takes a lot out of someone.”
My daughter gasps as she rushes to sit down at Lia’s other side. “Really? What’s your favorite thing to bake?”
That makes Lia’s eyes come alive. “Cinnamon rolls, most definitely. There’s something comforting about working with dough, in general.”
“Mmm, I love cinnamon rolls. With extra icing, but not the clear-y kind. I like the thicker kind of icing.”
“Ah, the cream cheese icing. You have good taste,” Lia says with a smile.
