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Zayn eyes him. “Don’t you have a restaurant to run?”
Fergus gestures, airily. “Oh, no. I just came by to confirm my suspicions and see Eve and your daughter.”
Speaking of which, Mila decides to come running towards us that very moment, and she trips over herself in the process. Before she can make contact with the ground, Fergus swoops in and catches her.
Mila startles, staring at the handsome stranger, and my heart leaps in my throat on seeing Fergus studying her.
“She looks just like you, Zayn.” His delight is obvious. “Only much prettier. Aren’t you?” he coos affectionately.
Blunt as ever, Mila stares at him. “Who are you?”
Fergus introduces himself. “I’m your Uncle Fergus. And for future reference, I’m your favorite uncle.”
“Are you Papa’s friend?” Mila wants to know before reaching up for his carefully slicked hair and destroying what must have taken Fergus an hour to do.
Fergus isn’t bothered in the slightest. “Yes, I am. I’m also your mother’s friend.”
Mila’s eyes flow to me where I sit, on edge, ready to take her if she makes a sound of dissent. Then she declares. “Mama doesn’t have friends. Ron says Mama is a stick-in-the-mud. Mama has a swear jar, too.”
“All right, you brat,” I easily take her from Fergus and watch my four-year-old bare her teeth in a mischievous grin, satisfied with her handiwork.
“I’m not a stick-in-the-mud,” I inform her as I set her on the ground.
As Fergus laughs, Mila shakes her head soberly. “Nu-uh. Ron said so. Mark also said so.”
I tug on her braid lightly. “Then they’re wrong. Now, go play.”
As she rushes off, I turn to look at a silently laughing Fergus and Zayn who are staring determinedly at the tablecloth as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
“As you can see,” I begin, “she’s inherited more than just looks from Zayn.”
Fergus tucks his hands in his pockets. “She’s delightful. Are you bringing her to the barbeque?”
I hesitate. “What barbeque?” My eyes shift to Zayn, who is glaring at his friend.
“I was going to ask her,” he says, annoyed. “Before you started yapping.”
Fergus blinks innocently. “Well, if you say so.” Turning to me, he says, “Ian’s hosting a barbeque at his place, and we
told Zayn to invite you. Everybody would like to meet you and Mila. It’s just a small friendly gathering.”
Suddenly the idea of Zayn’s friends staring at me, silently judging me for keeping his daughter from him, it is too much. I know his close friends, but aside from Fergus, I didn’t know them all too well. I remember Agatha with her pristine appearance and that sharp wit, and her brother Philip who wore class like a second skin. And Ian, with his distracted expression but sharp gaze that never missed anything.
I wouldn’t belong there.
And I don’t want to be judged for my decisions.
My smile is fake but I meet Fergus’s eyes. “I’ll think about it.”
He nods. “Well, I hope to see you there.” He reaches over to hit Zayn on the upside of his head from where he is now leaning in his chair looking bored. “Stop slouching. Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”
Zayn sneers at him. “At least I had one, orphan boy.”
Fergus grins, flipping him off. “Hey, I had one parent. Ian’s the orphan, not me. Get your orphans right, asshat.”
The exchange is so crude, but there is such comradery between the two that I could tell that despite the seemingly harsh exchange, it is little more than friendly batter.
As Fergus walks away, Zayn calls out, “I want extra maple syrup on my pancakes.”
