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“Nothing. Boy talk.”
She scoffs, but her gaze is soft when she looks up from her painting. A smile curves her mouth, and she’s teasing me when she says, “So. Do you think we should have another?”
Oh, she’ll have to try harder than that to freak me out. I shift the now sleeping baby in my arms and check my watch. “Definitely. Think I can fit you in before dinner.”
“Rufus!” A paint-splattered rag sails through the air and bounces off my shoulder, and I raise an eyebrow at my wife. She dances back a few steps, grinning.
The paintbrush hangs forgotten by her side. We’ll come back to this canvas another time, but for now…
“Come on,” I tell the baby, pushing to my feet with a groan. I snatch up my cane before it topples to the floorboards. “Let’s get our revenge on your mother.”
Helen shrieks, already clattering from the room. And I limp after her steadily, warm in the knowledge that she’ll never run so far or so fast that I can’t catch up. She’s a soft touch, our girl.
“We’re lucky,” I tell Freddie, my lips pressed against his warm head, prowling along the corridor, brass sconces buffed to a bright shine on the walls. “But don’t worry. I won’t let us forget it.”
Not for a single moment.
Not even in my dreams.
* * *
