Page 77 of Who's Your Daddy
“No.” I wander away from the noise. “Lola isn’t a fan of helicopters so we drove back.”
Brian looks up from his phone. “It’s a four-hour drive. What took you so long?”
There’s no fighting my grin. It may have taken us eight hours to get home, but they were the best eight hours of my life.
I can’t tell them that, though. Lola would twist my bollocks clean off. So I simply mutter “traffic,” then change the conversation. “Madame E gave me a riddle. I need some help.”
Murphy sends the ball to T.J.’s side in what should be an easy return, except T. J. has suddenly lost all interest. He bounces up and down, his shaggy hair falling into his eyes. “I love riddles.”
“Me too. So what has fins and goes in water?”
Murphy tilts his head, frowning. “Seriously?”
With a shake of his head, Brian slips his phone into his pocket. “No.No fish. No fins. No pets.”
“Ah, a fish!” I clap once, the sound echoing loudly off the walls.
“I want a fish,” T.J. agrees.
Sully nods. “Okay.”
Brian growls, arms crossed. “We don’t need any more living creatures to take care of.”
“Eh.” I wave a dismissive hand. “It’s a fish, how hard can it be?”
“Iagree with Cal,” Sully says.
In unison, Brian and I snap our gazes to Sully. He’s now focused on his phone though, smiling as he types away using both thumbs.
With a nod at him, I eye Brian and mouth, “Why’s he smiling?”
“Why’s he agreeing with you?” Brian shakes his head and ducks into his bedroom.
“Should we pick out a fish tonight?” I ask the boys.
“Yeah.” T. J. darts around the Ping-Pong table. “Can we go to the arcade place after?”
I peer over at Sully. “Arcade?”
He shakes his head but he’s smiling again. “Sloane and I took them to the bar across the street for dinner last night. They have one of those old game machines. They spent a small fortune playing while Sloane and I—” He snaps his mouth shut, his eyes bugging out.
Fucking hell. I don’t think I’ve heard him string that many words together in a decade. And the smiling? I’d forgotten what he looks like when he’s not being a broody wanker.
Before I can call him on it, he glowers and grits out, “Food’s terrible.”
“Please, Dad,” T.J. begs, pulling on the leg of his trousers.
Sully’s expression is flat when he looks at him. Even so, he’ll say yes. It’s damn near impossible to say no to his son.
Me? I’m always down for bad food and good games. That’s how I’ve spent about half my time since I moved to America for University. And I’ve already eaten dinner, so I’ll stick with chips or an appetizer. Maybe an ice cream sundae. Oh, that actually sounds really good. Chips—excuse me; fries—with an ice cream sundae.
“Sounds good to me. Let me get changed, and then we can head out.”
In my room, I take my wallet and phone from my pockets, pausing to scroll through the pictures I stole of Lola today.
I caught her off guard with the first one. She’s squinting at the camera, the Atlantic Ocean rolling behind her from where we stood on the cliff walk. After that, she was a good sport, performing for me when I insisted on snapping photos.
A big, obnoxious smile as she held her hand out at the Breakers, acting as if she owned the mammoth mansion. Oyster in one hand, blowing a kiss my way from across the table. And my absolute favorite: when she snagged the phone from my hand while we wandered across the bridge in Mystic and pressed a kiss to my cheek as she took a selfie.
