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“If I go back now, she’ll make me pay.” Victoria watched the ice melt in her glass.
“Then don’t go back.”
Her eyes snapped to his. Everything he was shone from him—strength, honour, courage, hope. He was hope.
“Is it really that simple?”
“It is if you want it to be.”
“I’m scared,” she confessed.
“Want to hear a secret?” He leaned over and took her glass from her, placing it back on the desk. He held both of her hands in his, resting them on her knees. “I’m scared too. Change is a scary thing.”
“And you’re going to do it anyway?”
He nodded, a knowing smile on his lips. “So are you, sweet Vicki, so are you.”
He closed the distance between them and captured her lips with his.
His kiss was a promise.
It tasted like freedom.
???
Flynn and Abby heard Katy calling for her mum as they walked up the stairs to Abby’s bedroom. There was no hysteria, no urgency present in the cry, so Abby knew she hadn’t been awake for long.
“There goes my shower time,” she grumbled.
Flynn tugged her close and pressed a kiss to her bruised lips. “Go shower. I’ll deal with the terrorist.”
“I don’t know. She probably got a fright. Or had a bad dream. She’ll want her mum.”
“Why don’t you stand in the door, and if it looks like I’ve got it under control, you can shower?”
/> “You’re humouring me, aren’t you?”
“Aye.” He grinned as he turned the handle on Katy’s door. “What’s up, terrorist? What’s with all the shouting?”
“There’s something under my bed.” There was a tremor in her voice. It took all of Abby’s self-control not to push Flynn out of the way and gather Katy to her.
“Do you need your mum?” Flynn asked.
“No. You can look under the bed and scare away anything there. You’re bigger than my Muma. You’d probably be more scary to monsters.”
Flynn flicked on the light and Abby peeked inside as he knelt beside Katy’s bed. “I’d have nightmares too if I had to sleep in a room painted Pepto-Bismol pink.” He flicked the covers up and peeked under your bed.
“Is there a monster?” Katy clutched her favourite toy, her eyes wide.
“Aye, there’s a monster, all right. It’s Eric Cantona.” He sat up and cocked an eyebrow at Katy.
“Eric Cantona is not under my bed. You told me he spends all his time on trains, reading poetry. Plus he’s not a proper monster. He only kicked one man. Jonathan used to kick people all the time until he got in big trouble, and he isn’t a monster either.”
“I can’t believe you’re defending Cantona. Sure, he was a great forward, but he was also more than a little nuts. It’s a damn shame what happened to him.”
“Is he dead?”
“No, he’s an actor. But he might as well be dead. How can a man go from playing for the French team and leading Man U to victory, to prancing around in a bunch of arthouse movies? That’s no way to end a soccer career.”
