Page 95 of Winning Bid

“You cannot think that was a positive meeting?—"

“It was!”

She face palms. “Okay, then tell me you’re not planning to parent our own children that way.”

“Oh, hell no.”

“Thank god!” she says, laughing.

I smirk and drive us toward a nice pub I like on this side of town. “There will be no passive-aggressive shit, no jumping through hoops for our approval, no arbitrary punishments, none of that. The bar is in hell for my father, but I plan to hold myself to a far higher standard. And you.”

She gives my thigh a squeeze. “Same.”

“We won’t be perfect. I’m not naïve enough to think so. No parents are perfect. But my folks have given me a pretty good road map of how not to be.”

“Your dad, sure, but I love your mom.”

It warms me to hear that. “So do I, but she’s not perfect, either.”

“How so?”

“She enables Dad’s bullshit. Always has. Sometimes, she tries to rein him in, but it never amounts to much. He’s too dominant for her to manage. I wish she had more influence over him, but she doesn’t.”

June counters, “On the other hand, imagine how bad he’d be without her around to rein him in. I have a feeling Kitty polishes his sharper edges.”

The thought of Dad without Mom around is a bleak one. “For the love of Boston, I hope he dies before she does. The world does not need him in it without her around.”

“Hard agree,” she says, nodding.

I park just outside of Clair’s. “Thought we could get a drink to celebrate if you’re up for it.”

“Sounds good.”

Clair’s is a black façade-fronted hole-in-the-wall of a pub, complete with hardwood floors, green interior walls, and a copper tile ceiling. It smells like old beer and spilled whiskey, and the fireplace in the back corner is always burning in winter. The furniture is worn from too many butts and elbows. The server catches our order as we take off our scarves.

In short, it’s lovely.

I ask June, “So, how many?”

She gives me a confused brow. “Well, I thought I’d start with one single-malt?—"

“No, sorry.” I’m in too good of a mood to stay on track, apparently. “How many kids do you want?”

June’s surprised laugh makes me smile. “I don’t know. I’ve never been pregnant before, and I don’t know how my body will handle it. If it goes badly … I don’t want to say a number.”

“But if it goes well?”

A shy smile creeps over her lips. “I’m not sure. I kind of love the idea of having four or five of our own. Maybe more.”

The hesitation in her tone reminds me of when we talk about sex. She’s too worried about my opinion to say what she really wants. So, I call her on it. “Did you say four or five because you thought a higher number would freak me out?”

Her smirk sends me. What did I ever do to deserve seeing that expression on her perfect face? She admits, “Maybe.”

“How many do you actually want?”

“I don’t?—"

“June!”

---