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Bump.
Bump.
Bump.
I get up and go to the window. Willow is down below, dressed in a bright blue and white spo
rts uniform She’s kicking a ball into some nets. Oh, she plays soccer. I wonder why she’s up practicing so early. Maybe she plays this time every week? It’s Saturday. I’m going to go and investigate.
I pull on my robe and make my way up into the house. Mr. Masters is sitting at the table reading the paper, and Samuel is eating his porridge.
“Brelly,” Samuel squeals as he jumps down from his chair to hug me.
“Hello, cutie pie.” I smile as I hug him back. My eyes eventually rise to glance at Mr. Masters, and I feel my cheeks heat in embarrassment. I can’t believe I asked him what type of woman he likes. What was I thinking?
Mental note: don’t drink straight scotch ever again. Hardened criminals don’t even drink that shit. No wonder my head is pounding.
Suddenly, I feel underdressed and over daggy. I run my fingers through my rat’s nest hair as Mr. Masters appears to study me. “What are you guys doing up and dressed so early?" I ask.
“Willow plays soccer this morning,” he replies.
“What time will we leave.”
Mr. Masters’ face falls. “You don’t work weekends, Brielle. That isn’t necessary.”
“I know.” I take Samuel’s hand in mine. “I’d like to come and support Willow, if that’s okay.”
He frowns, just as Willow walks through the door with her ball tucked under her arm.
“Willow, give me a minute and I’ll just get dressed,” I say. “I’ll be five minutes, tops.”
She scowls. “What for?”
“I want to come and watch you play soccer.”
“What? You’re not coming, and it’s football. Stay at home and paint your nails or something.”
“Willow,” Mr. Masters chastises. “Where are your manners?”
I raise an eyebrow. “To be honest, football isn’t my thing, but coffee vans and sunlight are, so I would like to come.”
She glares at me, and I smile sarcastically, my eyes wide and waiting. “Besides, my nails are already painted.” I hold my hand up and wiggle my fingers. Willow rolls her eyes in disgust.
“Come on, Sammy, you can help me find some clothes.” I smile at the cute little boy holding my hand.
“Please don’t call him Sammy,” Mr. Masters interrupts. “His name is Samuel. Sammy is a seal’s name.”
“Oh.” I frown down at Samuel. “Is Sammy the Seal a thing?” I think for a moment. “I don’t know about that, I’ve never heard of a seal called Sammy.”
“That’s because even seals don’t like the name Sammy,” Mr. Masters says flatly.
Samuel swings my hand in his and I smile down at him. “What would you like me to call you?” I ask.
He glances at his father nervously before he brings his attention back to me. “I like it when you call me Sammy,” he whispers.
My eyes rise to meet Mr. Masters, and I raise my eyebrow sarcastically.
Willow folds her arms over her chest in disgust. “Didn’t you hear what Dad said? He doesn’t like it.”
