He caught my hand before I even had a foot on the floor. “What I want, Lang, is to make you breakfast, put you in the bath, wrap you in a blanket and hold you on the sofa for the rest of the day, while we watchTheLion Kingwith Teddy for the millionth time.” His eyes were sombre, his hair a tangle of curls, flattened on one side from sleep. “Then tonight, once she’s sleeping, I want to lay you out on the closest available surface and eat you out until you’re ready to take me again.”
My breath stuttered. Body flushed with heat. I was literally unable to speak.
“But, I also want to talk,” he said, a pinched expression on his face.
Looking away, I tucked the sheet beneath my armpits. “I don’t think there’s a lot to say.” I mean, he was leaving anyway. What was the point?
“There’s loads to say.”
I started to disagree, but he cut me off.
“Just have breakfast with me,” he said, his expression pleading. “Let me talk.”
“Okay,” I agreed, not sure what it would change.
“Chocolate milk or orange juice?” I called from where I stood, peering into my open fridge.
Through the connecting door that he’d refused to close, I watched Alistair turn from the skillet on his hob, spatula in hand. “Whatever you want.”
That felt like a lie. “Chocolate milk it is,” I warned. He only smiled in response.
I poured out two glasses, and had carried them as far as the sofa when I paused. Alistair was standing in the opendoorway; two plates stacked in his hands. “I thought we could eat over here instead,” he said.
When he had a spotless dining table fifty feet away? Instead of pointing that out, I just said, “Okay.”
Setting the plates on the counter, he helped me declutter the table. Moving Teddy’s half-built Lego car aside with a precision that made my throat narrow.
When we finally sat down to eat, the pancakes were a little cold. I didn’t mind. Being a parent meant eating almost every meal long after it had turned cold. We ate in an awkward silence for several minutes, the only sound the scrape of cutlery, before I finally worked up the courage to say what I’d been stewing over since I’d climbed out of his bed: “Thank you.”
He looked at me across the table.
“For what you did for Teddy,” I explained. “The money.”
His teeth dragged over his bottom lip. “I thought you were angry.”
“I am.” I pushed the plate away, trying to put into words exactly what I was feeling. “I’m angry you went behind my back. I never would have accepted the money from you, and you knew that.”
“I did,” he agreed.
“Still, I shouldn’t have yelled at you—”
“You had every right.” He cut me off. “You should be angry.”
“So agreeable all of a sudden.”
“I agreed last night; I knew when I paid the money you’d be angry and I did it anyway.” He shrugged. “I decided the risk was worth it because I wanted you to be okay more than I wanted you to like me.” Bloody hell. His admission should have made me furious. But instead I was resisting the urge to round the table and kiss him again.
“Why the sudden forgiveness?” he asked.
“I remembered something Heather said a few days ago—”
“Do I need to hire a hitman?”
“I don’t think so.” I rolled my fork over in my hand. “She pointed out that this – the money, the gifts – is how you show people you care . . . and then I started thinking about your mum’s stupid vacuum and her doorbell. Teddy deserves someone to go to bat for her, even if it was ill advised and pricked at my pride.” I blew out a breath. I hated that part of this truth, how embarrassed I felt that I needed to rely on other people to provide for my daughter. “Then I became about twenty per cent less mad.”
“Twenty per cent?” His eyebrows flew up, but I didn’t miss the hopeful edge to his voice.
“Maybe twenty-one,” I said, cheeks heating. “I blame the sex. I think it melted part of my brain.”
