Hollie giggles so hard she nearly drops the spoon, and I can't help but laugh with her.
“Just promise me one thing,” I say, leaning closer to the screen. “Have fun, my little Hollie-Pop.”
“Oh, don't worry. We will!” Mum chimes in as she bustles about in the background. “Later, we're making Christmas spaghetti. With cranberries. It's going to beveryavant-garde.”
“Avant-garde?” I repeat dryly. “That's one word for it. Dangerous would be more suitable.”
“Come on, Hollie, my love.” Mum utterly ignores me as she pours something suspiciously pink into a saucepan off-camera. “Daddy has work to do.”
She glances toward the screen, mischief twinkling in her eyes. “Though, you know what they say about all work and no play.”
“What, Gran?” Hollie gazes up at her, all innocent curiosity.
“That it turns perfectly good men into grumpy old sticks in the mud,” Mum declares with relish. “Your father used to laugh, once upon a time. Before spreadsheets stole his soul.”
I snort. “Spreadsheets pay for your holiday gin, Mum.”
“Barely worth the sacrifice,” she fires back, turning to stir her neon concoction. “Honestly, darling, when are you going to live a little? Take a day off. Go have a pint. Flirt with someone who isn't your accountant.”
“Mum,” I warn, half laughing. “You're corrupting your granddaughter.”
“She's four, Nicolas. The only thing I'm corrupting is her taste buds.”
Hollie giggles and waves her sticky spoon. “Bye, Daddy! I'll save you some sparkly spaghetti!”
“Please don't,” I deadpan, smiling despite myself. “Love you, Hols. Be good for Gran, and maybe avoid anything that glows.”
“I make no promises,” Mum announces with a delighted wink.
“Bye, love you both.” The screen freezes on Hollie's glittery grin before fading to black, and I lean back in my chair, the quiet of my office suddenly too sharp, too still.
My phone buzzes against the desk—a rapid succession of notifications that suggests the group chat has come alive.
I shouldn't look. I have reports to review, calls to make, and a mountain of work that needs my attention after yesterday's abbreviated day courtesy of the nanny interviews from Hell.
I look anyway.
REED:Survived the night. Mrs. Foster and baby both doing well. Gonna sleep for twelve hours straight.
REED:Also, WTF happened last night?
JACE:Don't get me started on last night. Fucking shitshow.
REED: Do I need to grab some popcorn for this?
JACE:Scandal my left ball sack. I was at a charity event with my SISTER. But apparently that's not as interesting as inventing a story about me and some married actress.
REED:The photo did look bad…
JACE:Because the paps literally cropped out the other 15 people in the conversation including her husband, mate!
REED: Fair point.
JACE:Fuck that. I’m sick of the wankers. What happened you, Adams?
I stare at the messages, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. What am I supposed to say? That I met a woman who made me forget every rule I've built my life around? That I spent the night with her and left like a fucking asshole? That I've spent every goddamn minute since thinking about her?
Fuck!
