Page 26 of The Thug And His Doll

“You have toy unicorns?” he asks, looking up at her wide-eyed.

“Pretty sure they’ve been waiting for me to introduce you to them,” she replies, looking over at me, searching for my approval.

“Can I go see the unicorns?” Toby questions.

“Go on. It’s okay,” I urge him, touching his upturned cheek.

After a beat Toby nods. “Okay, Mama.”

Okay, Mama. Those two words linger in the air as Daisy steers him out of the room.

Okay, Mama, I know you’re sad, but I’ll pretend you’re not, just like you keep pretending.

“Lia, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think,” Drix says as soon as they’re out of earshot.

I shake my head, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “It’s not your fault. You were having fun. It’s just…”

“It’s just what, Lia? You can talk to me. There’ll be no judgments from me, just an ear to listen.”

I chew on my lip, wanting so much to relieve myself of some of the burden of my memories, but I don’t. I’m feeling way too vulnerable right now. Sensing my indecision Drix blows out a breath, eying the mess that is the kitchen island and the sticky dough and flour covering it.

“So you bake?”

“Yeah,” I nod.

“Do you want to help me do this properly?”

I swipe at my eyes, glad for the distraction. “Sure.”

Twenty minutes later, the pie crust is chilling in the fridge ready to be rolled out in a couple of hours, the pitted cherries, sugar, cornstarch, vanilla and almond extract mix is almost ready to remove from the heat, and the kitchen is clean and tidy.

“That smells delicious,” Drix remarks as he leans against the counter, drying his hands with a kitchen towel. “You’re good at this.”

“It’s easy when you know how.”

“Toby said you make birthday cakes?”

“Other things too. Baking was a passion of mine.”

“Was? You don’t bake any more?”

“I stopped baking professionally a long time ago,” I reply, turning down the heat and carrying the pan of cherries to the island. I set it down, placing the sieve above the bowl, then pour the mixture from the pan into it.

The sweet juices flow into the bowl, whilst the softened cherries collect on top. “We just need to let them cool,” I explain as Drix quietly watches me. “Once the dough is ready in a couple of hours, we can line the tin with the dough, add the cherries then top it with a lattice crust.”

“Why did you stop baking?” he asks me, though I’m guessing he can already figure out the answer to that all on his own, but I answer anyway.

“Because Martin didn’t like it.”

“He didn’t like you baking?” Drix asks, perching on one of the stools.

“Martin didn’t like me doing much of anything. He didn’t like to see me happy,” I sigh. “He took great pleasure out of making me miserable. He smashed most of the china dolls I love to collect to smithereens the day I finally found the courage to leave.”

“Arsehole,” Drix mutters, and when I glance over at him I can see a muscle feathering in his jaw as he holds back from saying more.

“You’re right, he is an arsehole.” I give him a half-smile that doesn’t reach my eyes.

“I’m sorry you had to live through that,” he replies, swiping a hand over his face, dislodging some of the flour that still sticks to his beard.

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