Page 79 of The Daddy’s Girl

Reaching up, I touch his face gently, and he leans into it. Then, to my surprise, he eats up the distance between us and draws my lips to his. I practically melt into his arms.

The kiss is not passionate or heated. It’s a gentle intimacy, and I wish it could last forever. When he pulls away, we breathe the same air for a moment, our lips no more than an inch apart.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he whispers, making me huff with a hint of laugh.

“You keep saying that.”

He grins, and I want to devour that smile. I could live on it for the rest of my life.

The door opens for me, which I guess means the driver considers our moment over. I climb out first, and then Matis follows me. As he steps in front, he takes my hand and leads me through a cobbled courtyard toward the door.

When we get inside, he smiles at the woman behind the desk, and they exchange casual greetings in French. My eyes dance around, absorbing the home. It has a warm coziness to it, and I know in my heart that Matis has spared no expense when finding a place for his mother. I’m not sure how much this cost, but I’m willing to bet he spends more on her comfort than his.

Keeping me at his side, he takes me down a long hallway with residence rooms on either side. When he gets to his mother’s room, he freezes. Standing on the mat, he stares at the door and draws in a long, heavy breath.

Does he do this every time he visits her? Mentally prepares himself.

Suddenly, I imagine that it’s my mom or dad on the other side of the door. I picture what it would feel like to look my dad in the eye and not have him recognize me. A lump builds in my throat at the mere thought of it.

Gripping Matis’s hand tighter, I cling to his side. After shooting me a quick, comforting smile, he opens the door.

The room inside is small and dimly lit. There’s a large window that overlooks the garden, but the sheer curtains are drawn, letting in very little natural light. A woman sits at the table alone, and a TV plays in the next room. An open book is resting on the table, but her eyes are not focused on the pages.

“Bonjour, Estelle,” Matis greets her warmly as he walks into the room. “Comment vas-tu?”

The woman doesn’t respond. She doesn’t even move.

Seemingly unfazed, Matis walks in and places a kiss on her cheek. I watch from the other side of the room as he takes the vase of flowers from the window into the kitchen. As he works to replace them with fresh ones, he speaks to her. He asks her questions she doesn’t answer. He tells her about the weather and how beautiful it is outside.

After putting the new flowers in the sill, he seems to notice me standing here for the first time. Coming over, he takes my hand and draws me toward the woman.

“Mama, you remember Amelia.”

The woman lifts her gaze to my face. I have met Matis’s mother before, when I was young. When she still remembered things. She was beautiful then, and she’s still as beautiful now. Time and sickness have stolen so much of her complexion and definition, but she still has the same long and thick hair, more gray than brown sprouting at the middle part.

Her eyes are the same shade of grayish blue as Matis’s, and she has the kind of natural full cheekbones that many people have cosmetically planted. Matis told me she was a cabaret dancer, and I’d give almost anything to see photos of her back then. I bet she was extraordinary.

As she gives me a long, blank stare, I smile at her and offer my hand to shake. She only looks at it as my smile tightens. Then I lean forward and squeeze her hand resting on the table.

I tell her it’s nice to see her again as sweetly and softly as I can. “Je suis ravie de vous revoir.”

Her mouth doesn’t move into a smile, but I see a hint of it in her eyes.

Breaking the tension, Matis puts his hands on my shoulders. “Let’s go out to the garden. It’s a beautiful day.”

Standing up straight, I nod, and I notice the way Estelle’s eyes follow me. Something about that fills me with a sense of pride. I know it seems silly to assume it already, but I get the feeling that she likes me.

And judging by the soft way he’s caressing my arm, he seems to think so too.

Rule #22: Hurting her is out of the question.

Matis

Amelia’s lips are twisted into a small knot in the corner of her mouth as she deliberates over the chess pieces on the board. I can’t keep the smile from my face as I lean back in the black wrought-iron chair and wait for her to make her move. My mother is sitting next to her, studying the pieces with less focus.

“Make a move, Trouble.”

“I’m thinking,” she snaps. Her icy blue eyes almost seem to shimmer in the sunlight, and although I tease her to finish her turn, in reality, I could sit here all day and just watch her.