The sun streamsthrough the kitchen windows as I sit around the breakfast table with Cormac and Scout. After the chaos of the past few weeks, it’s a little surreal how peaceful life feels, and I think it’s going to take a while for all of us to be able to relax.
“Scout, you need to eat some eggs,” I say as he reaches for yet another pancake.
“But—” he immediately looks to Cormac for backup.
“You heard Fiona, bud. If you want muscles like me, you need to eat your eggs.”
I try to fight a smile as I take a sip of my coffee. “You have muscles? I didn’t notice…”
I almost spill it when Cormac’s hand finds my knee beneath the table and squeezes it hard.
“Maybe I haven’t been eating enough,” Cormac says in a low voice as he slides his hand along the inside of my thigh.
“Maybe you haven’t,” I say, a little breathlessly as a familiar ache starts to build between my thighs.
“Mmm… I’ll have to bear that in mind.” He gives me a look that tells me if it weren’t for Scout, he would be laying me down on the table and devouring me for breakfast instead.
I wonder if Ciara fancies babysitting for a few hours…
“They’re not as big as mine!” Scout quickly announces, holding up his arms and attempting to flex.
Cormac continues to stroke my inner thigh in a way that has me practically squirming in my seat. “If you want them to be bigger, you need to eat the eggs.”
I scowl, but he pretends not to notice, though the corner of his mouth twitches, which tells me all I need to know.
Apparently, Cormac is in a tormenting mood. Not only does he refuse to remove his hand from my thigh for the entirety of breakfast, but the moment I set down my knife and fork, he and Scout share a smile that can only be described as mischievous.
“What? Is there something on my face?” I wipe my mouth.
Scout clamps a hand over his mouth to try and muffle his giggles, which only makes me more nervous.
“Seriously, Cormac, is there something on my face?”
“I think it’s time we all went and got dressed,” Cormac suggests, ignoring my question.
Scout practically bounces up and down in his seat. “Yes! We should get dressed!”
Something is clearly going on.
I point at Scout. “Spill.”
He only shakes his head. “Nope!”
“I’ll let you eat cookies for lunch.”
Scout gapes as he looks at Cormac, but quickly schools his expression at the look on his dad’s face.
“Go and get dressed,” Cormac orders.
Scout jumps up from his chair, almost knocking it over, and bolts out of the kitchen.
I push back my plate and narrow my eyes at Cormac.
“Why can’t you tell me what’s going on?”
“What makes you think something is going on?”
“Don’t feign innocence. You’re planning something.”
