Page 33 of Daddy, Take Me Away
He didn’t look offended. Grunting noncommittally, he asked, “How can I help?”
Without someone else stepping in to finish the painting for her? She had no idea. She rubbed her eyes again. “I don’t know. Maybe I just need a break to think about it.”
He looked at her while she frowned at her waterscape until he nudged her shoulder with his own. Glancing at him, she waited, finally asking, “What?” when he didn’t say anything.
Bracing his hands on his thighs, he heaved himself up off the ground. “Come on,” he beckoned with a nod of his head toward the water.
“Uh… that water looks incredibly cold, and I don't really feel like swimming.”
“You’ve done nothing but paint for the last five days,” he replied, and beckoned with his hand this time for her to follow him. “Come on. It’s time you did something fun. Something to get the creative juices flowing again.”
Curious, she followed him part way around the lake where a weathered pier stretched out across the water. As blue as the reflection of the sky was on the loch’s surface, she was surprised when she glanced over the side to see how dark the water really was. It smelled peaty, which went a long way toward explaining why the ground around the lake felt so soft.
A black box made of thick plastic sat at the very end of the pier to the right. It had seemed so small from where she’d been painting on shore, but the closer she grew to it now, the bigger it became.
“What is that?” she asked, pointing.
The corner of Hamish’s mouth quirked into a smile, but all he said was, “You’ll see.”
Waiting for Hamish to lead the way, she followed him out to the end of the pier. She watched curiously as he opened the box, leaning down to remove a smaller version of what looked a lot like a skateboard with boot locks and round engine exhausts on the bottoms.
“Seriously,” she asked, “what is that?”
“A flyboard. Want to see how it works?”
She perked, grinning. “Yes, please.”
Chloe watched in growing excitement while he set it up, sitting down on the end of the pier while he strapped his boots to the flyboard. He had the board right against the surface of the water, his arm hugging a pier post as he reached into the box and turned it on.
The box roared to life, the sound very much like a full-blown watercraft starting up right next to her. She jumped, but that minor startlement vanished when she saw him lift. Within seconds, it seemed, he had his balance. He hovered above the surface of the water until he was stable. A leap of excitement erupted from her gut into her chest, making her heart thunder as he maneuvered the flyboard as close to her as the pier would allow.
Never In her life had Chloe done anything like this. But when Daddy held out his hand, she took it.
“Careful now,” he directed. “Turn around and step back onto the board. Put your feet between mine.”
His were strapped in as far apart as the board would allow. Turning her back, she did as he said, her body thrilling as he wrapped one strong arm around her and with his other tapped at buttons on his vest.
The box roared louder and suddenly they shot up a good six feet into the air. She grabbed at him, hugging the arms holding her securely to his chest..
“Relax,” he murmured, his hot breath caressing her ear. “I've got you.”
He did too, and above the water they soared, flying in air so weightlessly, the morning breeze sweeping through her hair and the skirt of her dress. She laughed out loud, delighted as he swirled her around and around, up and down, and when he took her in those tight circles, centrifugal force swept her feet off into the empty air, but Daddy's grip never weakened.
He danced her all over the hundred-some-odd feet of distance the hose connected to the flyboard allowed. He laughed when she squealed, delighting her all over again. At one terrifying, exhilarating moment he scooped her all the way up into his arms while she clung to his neck, shrieking laughter.
She squealed as he took her up so high a drop from this distance would break bones. She wasn't afraid. Daddy had her, just like he’d said, and god if she didn't love him for that.
Jesus Christ. She loved him. She loved his grumpiness and treasured every one of the smiles she sometimes coaxed from him. He was smiling more and more these days. Theirs was definitely not the standard landlord-and-temporary-tenant relationship.
Chapter Eighteen
Hamish stared into the frying pan where the neeps and tatties were well on their way from golden brown to overcooked. The steaks were resting on the cool side of the stove, and a pitcher of sweet iced tea waited at the dining table, dripping condensation as the ice cubes Americans loved so much slowly melted.
Chloe was in her room, packing her things into the suitcase he'd bought for her. The eleven paintings she’d accomplished in her week with him had already been carefully crated up and sealed. The crate was in the back of his Sorento where it would remain until he posted it back to America. After what had happened with her last suitcase, neither of them was willing to take any chances with this new precious cargo. It had been his idea for him to post her artwork once she was safe–he hoped–on the plane.
Safe? Ha! He didn't have a lot of faith in her ability to keep herself that way and not flash her dwindling cash in public or strike up a conversation with an absolute stranger. Hell, she was still living with the last laddie she'd blindly followed home.
He stared a million miles through their slowly burning supper, just knowing if he let her go she might disappear out of his life in more ways than just returning to America. She was going to talk to the wrong person, sit next to them on the plane, get trafficked Into the ether where it would be as if she'd never existed.
