I stare down at the food on my plate, pretending to fluff my potatoes.
How has it come to this? Trying to get through dinner without a permanent hard-on.
“She seems like a sweet kid, though,” Cleo says, not seeming to notice the direction my thoughts are going. “You must be proud of her.”
“I am. Every nerdy, mischievous bit of her.”
The smile Cleo beams back looks a little sad.
I wonder if she’s thinking about her dad and all the ways he’s never been that attentive.
“Nothing wrong with nerdy. The world needs more of that—especially girl nerds. They’re the ones who figure it out for the rest of us while they’re sorting out their own lives.”
Can’t disagree with that logic.
I lift my glass. “Here’s to that. As long as she always remembers there are times when her old man knows best.”
Cleo’s eyes sparkle over the top of her wineglass. The same wine she got from the cellar earlier, when I wasn’t looking. Must be a joy for her to walk in and find it unlocked.
So much has changed.
“She won’t,” she says flatly. “Once she hits twelve or thirteen, you’re screwed.”
“Already dreading it.”
“She’s going to run rings around you.” She grins, licking a stray drop of wine from the rim of her glass. The burgundy liquid disappears behind her lips.
Too sexy by half.
That’s her problem, and she doesn’t even know it.
My cock does, though, and it has a one-track mind. If it had a vote, I’d swear off scallops for life if it meant hauling Cleo into bed this second.
“If she’s anything like you, she’ll make me grey as a wizard’s beard,” I say.
“Greyer, you mean.” I glower. She reaches over and flicks at my beard. “Don’t be embarrassed. The silver makes you look kinda distinguished. You’ll be rocking the full-blown silver fox vibe in five or ten years.”
“Watch it,” I growl, but I relax back into the chair as I pull away, nursing my wine.
Best if I drink very little tonight, and her too. I’ll be counting her glasses.
We don’t want a repeat of—fuck, everything that just happened.
The rest of the meal passes with small talk about our daily routines, the extended family. She tells me the latest she’s heard on her happily married cousins.
I can’t believe that fucking punk Ethan actually helps his wife with her bookstore. Didn’t think he had it in him.
I listen to her complain about her cramped apartment back in Boston, what a mess it is with all her painting equipment lodged into a one-bedroom unit. How sometimes she opens the warped window at sunset and paints, and it’s how she finds her inner peace.
She doesn’t mention her father again.
I’m glad she doesn’t ask me about Kit’s mother, either.
Two ghosts that don’t have to exist if no one mentions them out loud.
We trade stories about our lives like two people over an ordinary dinner—a dinner date I didn’t ask for, shit—and it strikes me how easy it is to be with her when we’re battling our worst instincts or fussing over that mummy cursed object in the basement.
Dangerously easy.
