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“But why can’t we go with you?” she asks.
I rinse my razor in the sink before going in for another section.
“Because it would be boring for you,” I say.
“But you just said you’re having fun. How could it be boring if you’re having fun?”
For a four-year-old, her logic is unparalleled. Her lawyer uncle would be impressed.
“It’s grown-up fun, not kid fun,” I say. “We’re not blowing bubbles or going to the park.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“What are you and Harper going to do tonight?” I redirect the conversation. “I told her you could have dessert if you eat all your vegetables, and I made sure your favorite orange sherbet is in the freezer. Friday-night desserts have become a Bellisario tradition lately.”
She sticks out her tongue. “I hate orange sherbet.”
“I thought you loved it? I thought it was your favorite?”
“That was before, Daddy.” She crosses her arms as if I should have known. And maybe I should have known . . . I’ve been spending more time away from them than ever lately. Not physically, per se, but mentally. Even when I’m home with them, my mind drifts to other places—namely Margaux.
“How about I bring you something back?” I offer.
Her pout fades. “Like chocolate cake?”
“Sure.” I’m not sure if the Peruvian restaurant we’re going to tonight serves chocolate cake—and then there’s the whole issue of lugging it around at the symphony, but I’ll see what I can do.
“With marshmallow frosting,” she adds. “And rainbow sprinkles.”
“That’s a very specific request.”
“But it’s my favorite,” she says.
“Noted.” I finish shaving, rinse my face, and reach for my aftershave.
“Adeline, Daddy’s bringing us home chocolate cake with marshmallow frosting and rainbow sprinkles,” Marabel says when Adeline ambles into the room.
She, too, looks a little more somber than usual.
“Why the long face, kiddo?” I ask her.
“What’s a long face?” Marabel asks.
“It means she looks sad,” I say.
“My boyfriend broke up with me,” Adeline says, taking a seat on the cold marble floor. She rests her chin in her hands.
“First of all, you’re in kindergarten,” I say, “so you’re not even allowed to have a boyfriend. Second of all, you’re too good for him. Plain and simple.”
She looks up at me as if nothing is registering, like I’m speaking a foreign language.
The doorbell chimes before she has a chance to question anything.
“That’s Harper,” I say. “Should we let her in?”
Adeline jumps up, her somber expression wiped away and replaced with a smile that takes up her entire face. Marabel climbs off the countertop and races her sister to the front door.
“Wait, girls,” I say, following after them. “You know the rule. You don’t answer the door without a grown-up with you.”
A minute later, the girls are completely preoccupied with Harper and the “bag of fun” she always brings—mostly snacks and dollar-store items. When they’re not looking, I use the opportunity to sneak out.
Guilt eats away at me with every step I take to my waiting SUV, but once inside, it’s quickly replaced with the thrill of anticipation that floods my core when I think about seeing Margaux again.
On the way to pick her up, I remind myself that I wouldn’t be ditching my girls to be with this woman if I weren’t absolutely sure about how I feel about her.
While I never expected to like the woman my aunt chose for me—let alone fall for her—here I am . . . falling . . . harder and faster than I ever expected.
And there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SLOANE
“Why don’t we just make something from scratch?” I ask Roman. It’s nearly 11:00 p.m., and the last three bakeries we stopped at were out of chocolate cake for the day. The first two places we went to were closed, despite Google saying they were open. The second one was permanently closed and, by the looks of it, had been for a while. There’s a bakeshop in Brooklyn that has chocolate cupcakes with rainbow sprinkles but no marshmallow frosting—so far that’s our best bet. “Would be a lot easier than driving all over town.”
He rakes his hand along his jaw. “I don’t even know if I own a cake pan. Even if I did, I don’t know the first thing about baking.”
“Let’s just grab a few things at the Westside Market up the street, take them back to my place, and I’ll teach you . . .” It’s risky taking him to my apartment, and it’s reckless extending this date beyond dinner and a concert, but I’d hate to send him home empty handed after he made a promise to his daughters. When he spoke about them at dinner earlier, I could sense the guilt in his tone despite him trying to play it off like a cute little conversation they had.
He drags in a long breath of humid summer air. “You sure you want to do that? It’s already getting late.”
