Page 68 of Better Daddy
Oh, for fuck’s sake. My stomach pitches and sweat breaks out at my temples.
When I called about the horses, the bloke I talked to mentioned that the rides were different now. Though he didn’t tell me just how different, and I didn’t ask. I just told him that it was fine, as long as the concept was similar.
Bollocks, I really should have asked, because the small seatbehind the bike is barely big enough for me, let alone both of us and my blanket.
“I believe that’s our ride. It’ll take us around the park.” Or not. I can’t imagine the little man on the bike can actually pull the two of us around.
“Do you think this is a good idea?” Sloane asks, not looking away from the ridiculous bicycle-carriage contraption. “It’s supposed to pour.”
“No,” I assure her quickly, my chest pinching. “I have it on good authority that it will not.”
She looks up at the heavy cloud cover and shrugs. “If you say so.”
The man on the bike is bathed in an eerie pink glow when he says, “Mr. Murphy? Hop in. We should get going if we want to beat the rain.”
“It’s not going to rain,” I grumble, though I’m feeling less sure of myself as the clouds grow darker above us.
He cocks his head, his face cast in strange pink-hued shadows. “Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
I help Sloane into the carriage, if it could be called such a thing, then climb in and squeeze myself next to her. The foot of space between the bench and the front of the carriage means my feet barely fit, and my knees are wedged just below my chin. But with a long breath out, I force away the irritation gathering in my chest and tuck Sloane into my side.
“This is cozy.” I smile, though it feels more like a grimace.
Sloane rolls her lips, just like T.J. did an hour ago, and hums.
The man starts to pedal, standing up and using all his body weight to get the cart moving, and we move through the street.
As we turn the block onto the avenue, he spins back to us. I want to tell him to watch the damn road, but I don’t want Sloane to glare, so I keep my mouth shut.
“Normally,” he says, “we play music, but my sound system is on the fritz.” He gives us a small shrug.
That figures.
“The good news is I love to sing.” Before I can assure him we’re fine listening to the sounds of the city, he breaks into the ballad “Fools Rush In.”
Bloody hell. When he hits the melody, I can’t help but wince. So much for the perfect night.
I turn to apologize to my wife, only to find her pressing her lips together with enough force to make them go white. Her eyes are dancing and her cheeks are pink as she works hard to fight a laugh.
“It sounds like Dammit this morning when Brian went down to the office without him.” Her giggle washes away the anger clawing up my throat, making me laugh instead. She’s right.
“Not sure I can take this for much longer,” I say as the guy hits another high note.
Sloane leans into me, burying her face in my chest and falling into a true fit of laughter. “God, I missed having fun with you,” she admits once she’s collected herself.
I pull her tighter to me because, damn, I miss us too.
“Remember karaoke nights during law school? You used to love listening to all the people getting up there to sing, especially the bad ones,” she teases me.
That’s not all I remember about karaoke, but I nod, because the other memory will cause me to pitch a boner right now, and I’m not sure any of my extremities can move in this cramped space.
“I don’t think Brian ever recovered from your impersonation of Britney Spears,” I tease her.
“He’s such a baby,” she says with a roll of her eyes, likely remembering how she tried to drag him up on stage and when he wouldn’t join, she brought the mic over to the table, sat on my lap, and serenaded him. To this day, Brian shudders at the mention of karaoke.
She gives me a wistful smile. “I’d love to do that again.”
Fucking hell, I’d give anything to give her a night full of bad music and laughs. The need to make that happen for her is as strong as the need to hold her.
