Page 105 of The Daddy’s Girl

“No?”

“I’m fifty-three, Amelia. I think that ship has sailed.”

“My dad was fifty-eight when I was born.”

Matis chuckles. “Are you trying to convince me to want children?”

“No,” I mumble. Turning back around, I stare straight ahead as we continue walking. I can’t help but feel a sense of disappointment that our dreams don’t align. Unlike me, he didn’t just have a vision of some fictional future where we not only get to be together, but we get to grow a family.

Seeming to notice the way my mood has soured, he reaches out and grasps my hand in his. “You know, I never wanted children because I never met anyone I wanted to have children with.”

My throat tightens with emotion as I slow my steps and glance back at him. His silver-blue eyes shine in the streetlamps.

Is he saying this to me for a reason? To toy with me?

Or to tell me something?

When I don’t respond, too focused on the tone of his voice and the feel of his hand in mine, he stops walking, pulling me to face him.

“So answer the question.”

I can’t breathe. Does he know what he’s doing to me?

Without even thinking, I hear myself whisper, “Yes.”

Our eyes meet, and the sparkling Eiffel Tower in the distance doesn’t hold a flame to the intensity between our eyes at this moment.

Then, out of nowhere, I feel a surge of anger. Yanking my fingers from his, I turn on the cobblestones and march away.

“Amelia,” he calls out in confusion.

I don’t respond. My lower lip trembles as I continue my wrath-filled stomp with my arms folded tightly over my abdomen.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, jogging after me.

“Nothing.”

I barely notice, but in his erratic concern, he reverts to French. Pacing quickly beside me, he carries on with his questions of confusion.

“Qu’est-ce qu’il y a? Où est le problème?”

I swear he does this on purpose, sounding even sexier in his native language. So I stop in my tracks and turn toward him with fervor.

“You can’t do that, Matis!”

“Do what?”

“Flirt with me!” I snap, knowing very well I’m not making much sense, but the emotions are bubbling up inside me, and I just need to let them out, in whatever erratic puzzle of disjointed thoughts they come to my head.

He holds his hands up with a quizzical wrinkle between his brows. “D’accord, mon trésor.”

“No, stop it!”

“Stop what?”

“Stop being so…ugh! Perfect!”

“I don’t know what to say, Amelia. Tell me what I did wrong.” The gentle apologetic tone of his voice seeps straight down to my heart, making this so much harder…and yet easier at the same time. He wants to know why I’m mad…then I’ll tell him.