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“Come on. Stay for dinner. And don’t tell me you’ve already eaten because we both know that’s bullshit.”
“I ate at the horseback riding place,” she says, unable to keep from cringing at the lie as she says it.
“Yeah, I’m sure the carrots and hay were delicious.”
I get an eye roll that rivals my daughter’s, and she bites her lip while she mulls my offer. “Really? I’m not imposing?”
“It’s not imposing when someone invites you, Ginger.” I say it quietly enough that Fiona doesn’t hear. If she gets wind of the nickname, she’ll take it and run with it. And I prefer having Ginger all to myself.
The nickname. I’m talking about the nickname.
“We have lots of time together, don’t we, Fi?” I ask, knowing how much Fiona adores Ruby. If there’s a chance of having her stay for dinner, she’ll agree to anything I say. Which would be a good time to get her to step outside the noodle zone, come to think of it.
“Yes. Plenty.” Again with the eye roll.
“Fiona, it’s not cool to roll your eyes at your dad,” Ruby tells her. After all the times I’ve seen Ruby do the same thing, I raise an eyebrow at her.Really?She starts to giggle and puts an arm around Fiona. “Justtryto do it a little less, k?
Fiona saunters over to me. Wrapping her arms around my waist, she buries her head in my stomach. “I’m sorry, daddy. But we do spend lots of time together. I was just agreeing.”
“I know. It’s okay,” I tell her. “So would it be okay if Ruby stays for dinner?”
“OMG, Daddy, yes.”
Before I can flip out at her use of texting language, Ruby steers me into the kitchen, where she starts laying out the food on our mismatched plates and platters, making the whole spread look even better. “Pick your battles, Daddy,” she says quietly. “She’ll lose interest in that expression long before you win her back after nagging too much.”
She’s probably right, but I barely hear her. I’m focused on the ripple of heat that shot straight to my cock when she called me “daddy.” Yes, I know how wrong that is.
Fiona has been racing around the house like a zephyr since I came in the door. The kid has more energy than a puppy, and somehow Ruby manages to keep up with her. But tonight, I’m determined to give her a break, so I stomp over with exaggerated steps, arms crossed over my chest.
“Who likes noodles with butter?” I ask, grabbing Fiona and flipping her upside down.
“I do!” she squeals, thrashing around. “Put me down, daddy.” When I lower her down head first, she erupts in giggles. “Kidding. I was just kidding!”
Throwing Fiona over my shoulder, I continue stomping around, this time heading for the stairs to make sure she showers and gets into her pajamas before dinner. Ruby watches the two of us like it’s dinner theater, and I turn back and point a stern finger at her. “Please open a bottle of wine and pour yourself a glass. We’ll be back in ten minutes.”
* * *
“I am sooo full,” Fiona says, sticking her belly out and stroking it in large circles. “I can’t eat that.” She points at the lone sprig of broccoli on her plate, the one green item I added to her beige dish of noodles.
“Guess you’re not getting dessert.” Spoken like the unfun parent I am.
“Bet you can’t eat that piece of broccoli faster than I can eat mine,” Ruby says, holding up an even larger piece that I’m pretty sure won’t even fit in her mouth.
“Can too,” Fiona says, picking up the broccoli and reminding me, yet again, how competitive she is and how hard that will bite me in the ass someday.
“Yeah? Loser gets the smaller bowl of ice cream.”
And they’re off. Fiona shoves the entire piece of broccoli into her mouth and chews, with Ruby reminding her, “mouth closed while you’re chewing.” Hearing Ruby give my daughter parental advice makes my heart swell even more for her.
Ruby’s taking small, dainty bites of her sprig, all but guaranteeing that my daughter will swallow and digest her vegetable before she finishes half of it.
“I win!” Fiona announces, fist in the air. She pushes her chair back, legs dragging on the wood floor, and races to the freezer to find the ice cream.
Ruby drops the remains of her broccoli on my plate and mutters, “I don’t really care for broccoli, if I’m honest.”
And yet, she ate it for my kid.
Her rueful smile crinkles the corners of her eyes. “Don’t tell.”
