“Dat’s sad.”
“It was a long time ago, sweetheart.”
When Ro opened his mouth to speak, admittedly, I cringed inside. It was a crapshoot as to whether my sweet boy was still around or if he was aiming to earn his third strike of the day. I counted my blessings when it was the former.
“My friend, Scott, didn’t hab a mom or dad either. He lived with his granny. Did you live with your granny too?”
Duncan squeezed my hand a second time, then let go, sliding off the armchair to the floor. He maneuvered sideways, tucking his long legs underneath each other, crisscross applesauce style.
“Do you guys want to hear a story?”
Both nodded vigorously. When he motioned for them to join him, Reagan acted immediately, mimicking his position, while her brother moved at a more wary pace. Duncan spoke with a soft voice, choosing his words carefully. He skimmed over the majority of his years in foster care until he reached the man who taught him what it meant to love unconditionally and ultimately shaped his future. The twins were entranced as he told them about his time with Rogan James. Earlier, we’d explained why Duncan had to use a different name when we met, they just didn’t understand the significance of the one he chose to go by.
“He was my dad in every way that counted.”
Ro cocked his head to the side, his young mind working overtime to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. “So my name is still special?”
Duncan’s penetrating gaze slid to mine as he answered honestly, “Very special.”
“Told you so, Reagan.”
My son wouldn’t stop with the taunt. He never did. I pulled my feet up into the chair because I knew what was coming. As if a force greater than self-preservation was driving his actions, he stuck his tongue out at his sister. Reagan lunged. Rogan rolled left, dodging her attack by less than an inch. Seconds later, all heck broke loose. Squeals of laughter bounced off the walls as they chased each other through the house. The terror twins had been activated. It wouldn’t take long before they wore each other out.
Getting to my feet, I started toward the kitchen, calling out on my way. “Do you want something to drink?”
Duncan came up behind me. “Shouldn’t we stop them?”
Pulling out two waters from the fridge, I handed him one. “Nope.”
He’d figure out the difference between play fighting and real fighting eventually. I did. Our kids didn’t come with an instruction manual. Trust me, I searched frantically for one online after they were born. For the most part, they were sweet and easygoing, but every once in a while, their Irish tempers would flare. That’s when you had to duck and cover or risk being hit by flying projectiles.
“Have you thought about whether you want to stay here?”
“I’d like to try.”
The decision to remain in our house wasn’t me being stubborn or wildly independent, it was a hundred-percent about the comfort of my children. Ro and Reagan had been uprooted three times in the last couple of months. Us living at Waverly’s was only supposed to be a temporary fix until I found a permanent place for us to settle. Unfortunately, between Finn’s stalker, his engagement to Waverly, and everything happening with Mom and Dad, searching for a home hadn’t quite made it to the top of my list. My priorities had to change.
“Understandable.” Duncan cracked open the bottle, taking a long pull of the cold liquid. “Would you let me sleep on your couch then?”
“Do you really think that’s necessary?”
Slipping an arm around my waist, he drew me close, so close his breath warmed my face. The position should’ve felt awkward, considering he towered over my five-foot-six frame, yet awkward played no role in the way my body reacted. With every inhale, my pebbled nipples grazed the silky cups of my bra. The sensation intensified the ache between my thighs. Memories flashed through my mindlike snapshots from a camera. His hands roaming my body. Making love long into the night.
“Sloane?”
“Hmm?”
“What are you thinking about?”
Busted.
“Nothing,” I lied.
“Then why is your skin red here”––his fingertip caressed my cheek, tracing a line down my neck to the V of my sweater, between my breasts––“and here?”
Curse my Irish genes. I’d never been able to hide my emotions, not when my pale complexion made reading them easy. His featherlight touch wasn’t helping the situation down below either. I was a heartbeat away from spontaneously combusting or having an orgasm, I wasn’t sure which.
“It’s hot.”