“Damn right.” The icy silence feels more suspicious by the hour.
“He said he’d call yesterday.”
“I remember,” I say, putting my laptop on the table. “Have you been snacking?”
I gesture at the half-open bar of chocolate on the table.
“Hey, a girl has to dosomethingwhen she’s waiting for a call from a boy who moves like a sloth.”
“Huh.” I snort. The words stir this weird pang of jealousy. “You know he’s more than twice your age, right?”
“I’m not seventeen anymore. You can’t tell me who I can date.” Her face breaks into a grin.
She’s joking, and it’s pathetic I didn’t know.
I level a long look at her. “I wouldn’t tell you who to date, Nile. Just saying maybe you and this Fairfax clown shouldn’t be exclusive. Better options out there for you. A lot of them.”
She laughs. “The problem is we already kinda hooked up by showing off the egg and all. So now I’m invested. And for the record, he’s in his forties, and notterrible-looking.”
I swallow a growl.
Yes, I fucking know.
I’ve gone over the man with a fine-toothed comb at least fifty times, burning his birth date into my brain.
“Too old for you, and if this is any indication, too goddamned slow. Don’t care how many fancy degrees he’s stacked.”
Her eyes gleam under her lashes. “Hmm, I dunno. Nothing wrong with an older man.”
The way my gut twists tells me this whole conversation is a bad fucking idea.
“You’re still young. You’ll find some sensitive young artist your own age. Don’t settle yet.”
“You think I haven’t tried that?” She pouts. “They’re all ego and nothing to back it up. Lots of talk, no life experience. So many art boys think they’re deep because they skate through school on their parents’ dime and their dad owns a car dealership or something. Even I had to work part-time and work my butt off for scholarships. They suck, Holden.”
Fuck me.
I knead my forehead as I sit beside her, keeping one seat between us.
“You make me nervous for Kit,” I tell her.
“Why? How awful if she turns out like me, you mean?” There’s a playfulness in her voice.
It wouldn’t be horrendous if Kit does turn out somewhat like her—minus the terrible teens—but I shouldn’t be thinking about Cleo and my daughter in the same sentence.
There’s nothing to compare.
Kit, she’s my little girl, and Cleo is—
Not even close.
More like an annoying kid sister or a little cousin I had to chase after once. If I’m lucky, that’s how it’ll stay.
There’s nothing remotely fatherly about the way I touched her this morning.
Nothing nice and innocent about the way she brings out instincts I didn’t need to know I had.
This would be far easier if she was physically revolting. I want—Ineed—to get my brain back to seeing her as strictly off-limits.
