Page 122 of Who's Your Daddy
Murphy steps further into the flat, dropping his backpack by the door where Brian will surely pick it up while complaining about how no one puts their shite away, and heads toward the kitchen.
Over his shoulder, he says, “Ran into Madame E. We hung out with Sebastian for a bit. He told us about this bar he used to run back in the day.” He scratches his head. “Did you know that it used to be illegal to go to a bar?”
I frown. Why does Sebastian talk to everyone but me?
With a shake of my head, I force the thought away. Now is not the time to be worried about the ghost. “He probably shouldn’t be talking to you about that stuff,” I tell him.
Murphy shrugs. “Like Madame E says, I just listen to what they say.”
I chuckle. “That’s funny. You’re a funny kid, you know that?”
His lips kick up on one side, though he quickly doffs his usual stoic expression again. “Why do you look like someone died? Did someone die?” The reserved look turns to panic in a heartbeat.
Fuck. He probably thinks something’s happened to his mum.
I dart across the room and squat in front of him. “Everyone’s fine.”
The frown marring his face tells me he doesn’t believe me. “Then what’s wrong?”
Fucking hell. I can’t lie, but I can’t talk to my six-year-old about how my girlfriend might leave me and how Sloane won’t move in, which means we’ll lose this firm and the home he and I have only just settled into together.
When Fuzzy stalks past us, whiskers twitching, heading for Murphy’s room, an idea strikes.
I scramble to my feet and follow him. “Fuzzy’s sad.”
As if mocking my lie, he nuzzles up to Murphy’s race car bed and purrs.
Murphy pads into the room behind me. “He looks pretty happy to me.”
With a groan, I shake my head. “That’s just a façade. Trust me, he’s worried.”
My little lad inspects the cat, the wheels turning in his head. “The cat is worried?”
Head bowed, I run my hand over the top of Fuzzy’s head. As if he’s determined to call me out, he balances on his hind legs and paws at my chest, rubbing his head against my stomach. “Yes, very worried.”
Murphy flops down on his bed. “What’s the cat have to be worried about?”
“He’s afraid things will go wrong and then he won’t have a job.” I paraphrase Sloane’s statement as I sit beside him. Not that it’s true. I’d never let Lola lose her job. She’s the best of us.
Murphy tugs on my shirt sleeve. “Fuzzy doesn’t need a job, Dad. You have money and a really good job. You’ll take care of him.”
The panic that hasn’t loosened its hold on me since I overheard that conversation in the cupboard instantly evaporates. “Did you just call me dad?” I gape at my boy. “Wait. Never mind.” I rub my sweating palms down my trousers. “The book said not to make this a thing. Back to the topic at hand. What were you saying?”
He gives me a half smile. “We can make it a thing.”
A round of fireworks explodes in my chest. “Really?”
He nods. “Just for a minute, though.”
I take a deep breath, tempering my words. “I’m really glad you called me dad. As you know, I really like calling you my son.”
He ducks a little, gaze averted. “I’m really glad you’re my dad…” His tone is barely above a whisper. “Even if you are kind of weird and obsessive about cats working.”
Sighing, I drape an arm over his shoulders and rest my chin on his head. “It’s not really about the cat.”
He hums, as if he already knew that. “So what is it about?”
Sitting up, I steel my spine. It’s truth time. “Lola.”
