Page 2 of Accidental Irish Daddy

She bends to meet me halfway, then sets the basket down on the table and walks over to my counter to make herself a cup of tea.

I reach over and lift the tea towel covering the basket.

“Yum. Blueberry.” They look delicious.

“Fresh from the oven, love,” she chirps as she walks over.

“You’ve come by to feed me breakfast? You didn’t have to do that.”

“Nonsense. You need to keep your nourishment up if you expect to take on the day.” She turns to me, a kind smile on her face. “How are you today, love?”

“Managing.” I pick one of the muffins up and take a bite. It’s really good. “I’ve got a couple of meetings before noon, but otherwise—”

A car honks outside. The taxi must be here.

A second later, last night’s date… Ava, if I am not mistaken, comes walking out from my bedroom, the short, barely-there dress she was wearing last night hanging off her thin frame.

“I’m off.” She pauses and walks into the kitchen, kissing me.

I peck her lightly, not wanting to be too much of an asshole by denying her.

When our lips part, she smiles, licking them. “Mmm, blueberry. Later.”

And then she’s gone.

My face heats up a little as Martha huffs behind me.

“A little early for it, don’t you think?”

I chuckle and she laughs with me.

“She’s just a friend,” I reply.

“Uh-huh. Well, at least now I know why you haven’t answered your phone all night.”

She sits down next to me at the table as I look at her, digesting her meaning.

My expression turns serious. “He called you.”

“Of course, he called me. He couldn’t reach you. You know, Grant, given your history, I don’t understand this need of yours to avoid him when he reaches out to you. You’ve got him worried that you’ve fallen off the wagon again.”

I take another bite and finish my coffee. Then I get up from the table, taking the half-eaten muffin to the trash.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” she says, stopping me in my tracks. “You take that to work with you and eat it on the way.”

“Yes, ma,” I say sarcastically, going over to the sink instead.

I take another bite of the muffin, then pat Martha on the shoulder to reassure her.

“I’m grand, as you can see. So, now, you can call him and tell him that he’s got nothing to worry about.”

“Call him yourself,” she retorts, the look of concern still etched on her face. “You know, the day is going to come when you’re going to want something more out of life than scrubbers and money. You’re going to want real connections with people.”

“Ihavea real connection.” I give her another kiss on the cheek. “Where would I be without you checking in on me?”

“Right, right,” she snorts. “Butter me up, why don’t you.”

She means well. She always means well. She comes into my kitchen every morning with muffins or scones or some other such thing and tells me about my life and how I’m living it.

---