Page 33 of His Perfect Little Heirs

Like me.

Clay’s fingers are in her light-blonde hair, affectionately stroking the strands, and I somewhat miss having a woman find comfort in my touch.

My days of intimate love are done.

Now, I live each day for them. Making up for old times. It’ll never be enough, but my grandchildren will know me and remember my commitment to them.

I will be present.

I will stay.

We have made lunch on Sundays a weekly tradition, though; I know who is to attribute these occasions. My sons aren’t the leaders of this family anymore, nor I, my daughters-in-law reign. They pull us together.

Lucky men, really.

Too lucky.

Given the life we have lived.

As men, family time isn’t naturally front and centre, but it is now. Especially since my youngest, Xander, has left the city. Left the legacy. To follow his own path. So, we come together for a weekly call with him from wherever he and his fiancé might be in the world.

China was the last destination.

I miss my boy.

But I had to let him go.

My other son, Konnor, lives hours from the District, but he makes the journey to see us during the school holidays.

When the sliding door runs along the tracks, I turn to watch Max stride outside with his son, Mattius, cradled in his arms and still clinging to consciousness.

“Should I try?” I ask before considering my lack of paternal skills. I rise to my feet, drawing Max's attention away from Cassidy who splashes Bronson by the poolside.

Dammit, I want to hold my grandson.

I feel damn useless at times.

My boys don’t need me anymore, haven’t for some time. Life doesn’t tell you when the tables turn, and they grow larger than you and your teachings. Pride and melancholy both live in those moments of realisation.

He looks at me, a slight smirk hitting his lips. “Come with me. I’ll show you how to get him to sleep.”

Entirely too excited by the premise, like a damn old fool, I follow him across the lawn to the outdoor shower. It is a large rectangular space made from rustic wooden slats.

Max pulls his shirt off from the back of his collar and tosses the garment to the bench.

“Shirt off, old boy. He needs to feel your skin.”

“That’s enough of the old boy,my boy,” I order.

“Just do it,” Max says with that rare, settled smile, before stepping beneath the warm spray with the baby cradled in his tattooed arms. He rocks him as the water massages the child’s stomach, and my chest swells with pride at how fatherhood looks on him.

The sun overhead forces Mattius to bat his eyes against the intrusion. It seems to have worked.

I was never the father my boys are, and I’m damn proud of them for being better than me. The weight of my failings sits heavily in my chest.

With that, I pull my shirt off and don’t hesitate to step beneath the spray to join them.

Water droplets collect in Mattius' long lashes, and as he bats them out, his eyes eventually remain closed. Max carefully slides him into my arms; my grandson stays settled.

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