‘Watch it, Sorch.’ His voice trembles with laughter. ‘You’ll have Agnes coming after me with her rolling pin, or so your dad says. And I’m not dressed for the beach; I’m dressed for a barbecue. So the question should be, why are you dressed for a patrol of the arctic?’
‘Because it’s cold in the garden, silly!’ Sorcha replies, giggling as she feeds her small hand into his. ‘And now you’re going to freeze.’
‘What? You mean your dad hasn’t opened the barbecue lid and brought summer alive?’
‘You know that’s not the way it happens.’ She giggles, pulling on his arm. ‘My dad’s not magic.’
‘Not like me, you mean.’ With that, he pulls a bright shiny coin out from behind her ear.
‘A two-pound coin! How did you getthatout of my ear?!’ she exclaims, clearly delighted.
My God. If as if being annoyingly attractive wasn’t enough, it suddenly hits me that Flynn is also good with kids. Fuck. Why does he have to be good with kids? I love kids . . . even if they don’t seem to like me very much.He’ll be one of those hot, fun dads someday. A total DILF. I shut the thought down immediately, taking a sip from my glass and ignoring the sudden stinging of my eyes.
‘He must be trying to impress someone. Doubling the stakes, huh, Flynn?’ Paisley shoots me a sly wink as she enters the room,thank the Lord. She pulls open the door to a commercial-size fridge, hiding her smile in the depths of it. ‘Watch out for bankruptcy.’
‘You may laugh,’ he replies, patting the little girl’s head. ‘But Sorcha here is building herself a nice little nest egg.’
‘What?’ Paisley’s response comes out as a tinkling laugh. ‘She hasn’t told you she spends it on candy?’
‘Sorch,’ he says, drawing her name out even as he shortens it. ‘Sorcha, Sorch, So.’ He shakes his head disparagingly. ‘How are you going to pay for all the things a dog needs?’
‘I’ve decided I don’t want a dog,’ she replies quite seriously. ‘Princess Kitty wouldn’t like it. Besides,’ she adds, pulling her hand from his, ‘I like sweeties.’ And as though to prove the existence of her sweet tooth, she skips off to follow Paisley and what looked like a large chocolate cake.
‘What are you smiling at?’ Flynn asks once we’re alone again.
‘I was just enjoying the cuteness factor. You’ve got hidden depths.’ I take a sip of my drink to hide my surprise at my compliment. We don’t compliment each other. We snipe and argue. Apart from that one time we fucked.
‘Seeing another side to me, were you?’
I am. And I don’t want to.
‘I’ll admit, I’m a little jealous,’ I say, my tone turning snarky once again. ‘You never performed magic for me.’
‘Huh.’ He steps closer—so close I can smell his aftershave. It’s spicy and woodsy and all kinds of yum. He smells like holidays and the best kinds of memories. Or maybe he would if I closed my eyes. But even looking at him reminds me of all kinds of things. Like how we’d snuck away from the wedding party. How we’d stumbled into my hotel room. How we hadn’t even stripped out of our clothes the first time he sank into me. How his eyes had rolled closed as I’d clenched around him and moaned.
‘I disagree.’ I shiver as his deep voice rumbles across my skin. ‘Because I seem to recall making your knickers disappear.’
Chapter 4
FLYNN
‘Life is like... it’s like arse. I’m telling you, man.’
‘Hang on,’ Keir states, holding up his beer bottle and his free hand. ‘I sense Flynn has something important to impart—something of note. Peel your fuckin’ ears back, lads.’ With a flourish of his hand, he indicates I should go on.Keir; my boss, and mate, and a colossal piss-taker.
‘I wasn’t making an announcement,’ I protest.
‘I feel otherwise,’ he replies with a slightly drunken, though very smug grin.
‘Come on, out with it,’ Mac, the big fucker, adds merrily, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. And he is a big fucker. I mean, at six-foot-two, I’m not exactly small.
‘You’re a bunch of tossers,’ I complain cheerfully to the faux grumbles of the small garden crowd. Pushing the meaty arm off my shoulder, I make the inappropriately appropriate gesture with my hand.
We’re in the garden, and it’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey, though at least Keir has a state-of-the-art setup—outdoor heaters and a fireplace—plus I’ve put on street clothes since. Jeans. Boots. A jacket—the lot.Spring has arrived, my arse.We’re not eating outside in the frigid weather, just standing around with beers like men, critiquing Keir’s cooking skills while dishing out innuendo.
Keir’s mates, Mac and Will, can hold their own pretty well, chucking food-based puns around and basically taking the piss. How does Keir like his salad tossed? How does he pull his pork? I know, juvenile, but it’s a manly kind of bonding. And I’m in good company. Australians, as a rule, are a sweary lot, but this lot match me curse for curse.
‘Go on; life is like arse,’ Will, aka Dr Pussy, prompts. And that’s not my name for him. Nope, that’s his wife’s name, and I’m not arguing with a newborn wielding woman for no one.
