“There, ex. If I had anything other than vowels, I would spell out extraordinarily sad penis to claim victory right here and now.”
He stared at myEwith suspicion. “Is that a valid word?”
“Of course. Look it up.”
He did because of course he did. The man took Scrabble very seriously. The last time we’d played with Jamie, he’d argued up and down that Jamie’s use of bellend was not a valid Scrabble word. Jamie said it was in the British Dictionary and that Americans knew nothing. Turned out, Oliver was right, and Jamie had to remove his word and lose all the points. Things got rabid in the Cowan house on Scrabble night, let me tell you.
“Okay, that’s acceptable,” Oliver said after checking his phone. “It’s a good job I love you,” he added.
I gloated for a moment, then sat back to enjoy his pretty face. I could stare at this man forever and never tire of it. He was stunning. So masculine it robbed me of breath sometimes. His gaze lifted to meet mine, and he smiled.
“This is nice, isn’t it?” He said.
It was. Very nice. The house was quiet, the room still carrying the finest scent of garlic from the garlic knots we’d had with our rigatoni. The girls loved sewer pipes, as they called them. Even with my new dedication to taking more time to be here, Oliver and I shared precious few nights like this. His hockey schedule was insane. How they maintained an eighty-game pace, I had no clue. Hockey players were a different breed.
“Yeah, it’s really nice,” I had to admit as the tiniest sound floated to us.
An itty-bitty squeak like that of a yawning field mouse. I turned to look over my shoulder to see Daisy in the doorway, her nightgown wrinkled, her hair knotted, and her nose red.
“Hey, you,” I called. She ran barefoot over the tiles to me, surprising me greatly, as she usually wanted her daddy when she had bad dreams. I lifted her from the floor. The girl was light as pixie dust. I settled her on my lap.
“Was it that mean dragon again?”
She nodded, sniffled, and let her head rest on my chest. I glanced at Oliver, who was watching us with the most besotted expression I had ever seen.
“What’s you playing?” Daisy asked, her thumb resting on her lower lip, something that she tended to do when she was upset or stressed. Self-soothing, Oliver called it.
“Scrabble,” I answered, shifting her bony backside to the left. She clung like a burdock, the sweet scent of peach shampoo wafting off her hair.
“Can I play?”
I looked at Oliver questioningly.
“Maybe for a little, then you have to go back to bed. You have school in the morning, I have morning skate, and Jackson has to go to work,” Oliver explained patiently.
“Stopping the bad men,” Daisy whispered, then gave my scruffy cheek a pat.
“Yep, stopping the bad men,” Oliver replied before clearing the board to start a new game.
Daisy sat up straighter as we arranged tiles on the wooden stands.
“What’s you drinking? Coffee?” she enquired, fingering her tiles thoughtfully.
“Jackson is, I’m having cocoa. Would you like some warm milk?” Oliver asked and got a nod.
He rose to warm some milk, as Daisy and I plotted our moves in top secret tones.
“Daddy, Jackson and me is going to make words you can’t beat. I know how to spell so good!”
Oliver chortled, placed a mug in front of his daughter, and was about to reply when his gaze flew to the doorway. I craned my head. There was Scarlett, all sleep-rumpled and confused, her tiny toes bared.
“Is someone sick?” Scarlett asked. Ever the worrier.
“Nope, your sister had a bad dream,” I told her. “Now, we’re playing Scrabble to help her get sleepy because it’s the most boring game ever in the history of games.”
Scarlett giggled, then grew serious. “Can I play and have some warm milk, please?”
Her father sighed before giving her the briefest of nods. “One game, one mug of milk, and then both of you are going back to bed.”
