Page 12 of Irish Daddies
I grab the nearest spoon and launch it at her. It misses, hits the fridge, and ricochets into Aspen’s lap.
“Cool!” she shouts, lifting the spoon triumphantly.
Paul chuckles on the other end of the line. “Still interested in tomorrow?”
“I am,” I say, pacing toward the kitchen window. “Let’s do it. But I’m meeting you somewhere public. And I’m texting my friend every thirty minutes.”
“You got it. Tomorrow at six?”
“Six is perfect.”
As I hang up, Isaac looks at me and asks, “Are you going on a date?”
I hesitate. “Maybe.”
“Is he gonna kiss you?” Juniper gasps dramatically.
“Gross,” Aspen says.
I smirk at Alaina. “I’ll let you know.”
She holds out her hand for a high five. “Proud of you.”
I roll my eyes but give her the high five anyway. Just once.
Then I look at the kids. Aspen is making noodle forts. Juniper has cheese in her hair. Isaac has officially dumped his milk all over his lap. Joshua somehow has two spoons.
And I think…maybe I can have it all. Kids and a love life. A house. A white picket fence.
If not, maybe I can at least have one night.
8
RIAN
The house feels too clean.Too intentional. But that’s the point.
I’ve vacuumed twice. Wiped down every countertop. Hidden the weapons that usually live under the couch cushions or in the kitchen drawer. I even bought candles. Lavender and sandalwood. Something warm. Something fake.
The whiskey cabinet’s been dusted. The sheets on the bed are new. No stains, no wrinkles. No signs of violence or who I really am.
It smells like bleach and desperation.
I open the fridge to double-check the beer, even though I already checked it twice. Then I adjust the throw pillows again. Maybe she won’t notice the security cameras tucked discreetly into the corners. Maybe she’ll be too distracted by the wine I’ve chilled to ask the wrong questions.
I rehearse what I’ll say. “Do you want to get out of here?” “How about a nightcap?” “What’s one more drink?” “You look tense.” And when she comes back with me, I’ll let her get comfortable.Let her take her shoes off. Let her feel like this is something real. Let her trust me.
Because that’s what it takes. She has to trust me if she’s going to die.
But the funny thing is, even as I polish the glassware and fold the blanket just so over the edge of the couch, I feel it. The hesitation. The doubt. I don’twantto want her. I want to complete the task. Clean. Efficient. But I keep seeing her face. That little button nose, the freckles across it, her hazel eyes and the light in them when I tease her. Her curves, hiding beneath the stained sweatshirts. Her stubborn jaw.
This would be easier if she weren’t so goddamn human, if I hadn’t already seen her naked once before, if I didn’t already know what she felt like underneath me. If she weren’t possibly the mother of my children.
I pace the length of the living room again. The lights are dimmed. The stereo is ready to cue some playlist that says charming but low effort.Something she can laugh at and nudge me, tell me, “Wow, you really tried.”
I try to picture it. Her standing here. Her jacket falling off her shoulders. Her hand on my chest. And I try to follow it with the image of blood, but it just doesn’t come.
Instead, what comes is the sound of her laugh. That raspy giggle that slipped out when she didn’t mean for it to.And that night, when I made her orgasm around my fingers until she squirted for the first time.
