Page 20 of Ice Darling
Gordie’s eyes dance with laughter. “I sit in Santa’s lap at Christmas. Did you think my dad was Santa?”
I’m nowhere close to being jolly Old Saint Nick, but Cordelia’s face is red enough to match the gift-giver’s oversized coat.
The fact that she’s so embarrassed makes her look cuter somehow and…
Nope.
This woman is not cute.
And she’s not pretty.
I mean, sheispretty.
Objectively, she’s beautiful. The kind of beautiful that tries its hardestnotto lean into the feminine and somehow ends up looking more sultry and appealing when all is said and done.
She’s in all-black today, which seems to be her typical fare. But the black jeans are tight enough to leave no space for the Lord—as our school-dance chaperones used to say. The black tank top exposes her elegant collarbone and dips low enough to prove that she’s a hundred percent woman under everything.
I don’t want to notice.
It’s annoying that I do.
There’s a reason I didn’t jump on the Cordelia Davenport fake-boyfriend train when it came racing down the track after the game yesterday. I don’t have many Prince Charming acts left in me, but what I do have is reserved for my daughter.
A daughter whom Cordelia looks ready to climb the table to get away from. And earlier…didn’t she get startled because of the naked baby running around?
I have no interest in dating again. But even if I did, it wouldnotbe with a woman who doesn’t like kids.
“Sorry to intrude,” Mom says, appearing behind Cordelia. She’s trying her best to hide a pleased smirk, but she can’t quite stick the landing. “I came by to tell you that the nanny you were supposed to meet canceled at the last minute.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “Did she?”
“Yes,” Mom says, giving me the phoniest frown I’ve ever seen. “I tried to call you, but you weren’t picking up.”
I bet if I check my phoneright now,there will be no missed calls from my mother.
“Well, I better go,” a tiny voice squeaks. Cordelia edges past my mother, giving Gordie a wide berth. “I have work to do.”
Mom panics. “But it’s still lunch. You have to eat, don’t you?”
“Not hungry,” Cordelia counters, making a run for it.
“But…I wanted to ask about your motorcycle!” Gordie calls.
The mechanic stops in her tracks so fast, smoke billows from her boots. “My motorcycle?”
Gordie points to the bike that we can all see through the glass window. “I borrowed some motorcycle books from the library, but I couldn’t find yours in there.”
Cordelia’s eyebrows rise with every word from my daughter’s mouth.
“I asked the librarian for help, but she didn’t even know what a CVO Glide was,” Gordie says, her nose scrunching the way it does when she can’t find the answer to a question.
Cordelia’s eyes bump to me in disbelief.
I lean back proudly.That’s right. That genius came from me.
The mechanic’s gaze flies to my mother in question.
Mom laughs. “Oh, this is nothing. You should hear her when she starts going on about rockets.”
