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Her big brown eyes lock on my face. “How about a grilled cheese sandwich and then ice cream?”
That’s a compromise I can live with since I plan on sneaking spinach and tomato into the grilled cheese. Kirby’s never had it any other way, and she’s always eaten every last bite.
“Deal.” I squeeze her hand.
“Daddy?” She tugs on one of the sleeves of her light blue hoodie. “Are you sure I can’t go to the wedding?”
I reach down to pat her cheek. “You’re going to Boston with your mom for four days, Kirby. It’s your grandmother’s birthday, remember?”
“Grams told me she doesn’t celebrate birthdays.” She takes the opportunity to smooth her palm over my hand as it’s pressed against her cheek. “I want to wear a pretty dress for the wedding.”
“How about if we go out to dinner one night before you leave with Uncle Declan and Abby?” I suggest a compromise. “You can wear a pretty dress then.”
“She’s going to be my Auntie Abby after the wedding,” she reminds me.
Declan Wells may not be my brother by blood, but I consider him family. Our mutual friend, Holden Sheppard, holds the same place of distinction in my life. They both rank as high as my younger brother.
I tug on her hand when it’s safe to cross the street. She happily skips along beside me. “I like the dinner idea, Daddy.”
That solves this mini-crisis, so as soon as we’re across the street and safely on the sidewalk, I scoop my little girl up and into my arms.
Her fingers tap against my shoulder. “You should wear this blue sweater every day. Lots of people look at you when you do.”
I laugh. “What people?”
Her lips part into a wide smile. “Pretty people like that lady over there.”
Without warning, Kirby’s hand darts into the air with her index finger pointing straight at a blonde woman wearing a red pencil skirt and a black blouse. A leather briefcase is in her hand. It may be Saturday, but business doesn’t take a back seat to a calendar in Manhattan.
I’ve afforded myself the luxury of taking an entire weekend off from the law firm that my great-grandfather founded. I wanted to devote my time to my daughter before she jets off with her mom again.
Next weekend is all mine, too, but for a very different reason. I’ll watch Declan marry the love of his life before I spend Sunday recovering from that since it’s an open bar, and I suspect it’ll be a party for the ages.
“She’s staring at us, Daddy,” Kirby attempts to whisper, but it’s a fail.
I slide her back down to her feet. “She’s not, sunshine. It’s time for us to head home for lunch.”
“She is,” she argues. “I think she likes you, and you must like her, so say hi.”
The last thing I need is my five-year-old playing matchmaker, so I toss the woman a cordial smile and a nod of my chin before I tug on Kirby’s hand. “It’s time to go.”
“Rook?” The woman approaches. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Kirby answers for me. “Rook Thorsen is his name. I’m Kirby Thorsen.”
It seems that I need to have another chat with my daughter about stranger danger and keeping our personal details to ourselves.
“It’s me. Michelle.”
I run through my memory bank, trying to place this woman. I interact with dozens of people every day. Corporate law is not the right career path if one seeks solace.
“We dated for a hot minute in college.” She laughs. “It was during freshman year.”
That was fifteen years ago. I was eighteen and likely living it up. A lot of that year is a blur.
“You’ve changed,” she blurts out.
“So have you,” I shoot the hollow words back, wishing that my daughter wasn’t bearing witness to this exchange.
