What else was there to do but spill my guts? And I’d had enough whiskey in me by that point that I actually wanted to talk about it. I told him about the situation with Kenna, how it had developed, how I’d had her over that night only for it to go bad.
“I was wondering about the little dinner you’d set up,” he said, glancing over at the small table where our plates still sat.
“It’s a fuckin’ mess,” I confessed. “And part of me wonders what if she’s right, you know? What if me being an absent father too busy with his own damn work to be there for his kids might actually be worse than no father at all?”
His expression serious, Patrick nodded. I could tell he was considering the matter.
“You know what I was thinking about?” I asked. “Those Christmas mornings we had where da was too busy working to even be there to watch us open the presents he’d bought.”
“Yeah,” Patrick said, nodding. “And there was always a shit load of presents, too.”
“The maids would wake us up in the morning, telling us Santa had come in the middle of the night. Then they’d put on that Christmas music and make us breakfast while we sat in silence opening our stuff.”
He laughed. “Fuckin’ mad, when you think about it – no father being there on Christmas.”
“But that was our life, yeah? And Da didn’t think he was doing anything wrong. As far as he was concerned, he was doing the right thing by providing for us. And that’s scariest thing – he didn’t think he was doing wrong.”
Patrick nodded, seeming to understand. “And that’s what you’re worried about, huh? Comin’ into these kids’ lives and messing ‘em up trying to do the right thing, thinking maybe staying away from them is the best way, considering where we come from.”
I nodded. “That’s exactly it.”
Patrick leaned forward, his drink in his hand between his legs. “I can’t tell you what to do, brother. But I can tell you that all this nonsense you’re thinking about, how you wouldn’t be a good da – it’s shite. And you know how I know? Because you’re actually thinking about it. Bad fathers don’t care enough to worry. And on top of it, our da wasn’t awful, was he? I mean, we both turned out alright, yeah? At least I did.”
He grinned, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Then he stretched out his arms and yawned big.
“I take it that means you’re ready for bed. And I also take it that the suitcase means you plan on crashing here for the night.”
He grinned again. “That’s about the long and short of it. You got a guest room in this fancy place?”
“Sure do. Come on.”
Before we got up, a curious expression formed on his face, as if he had something on his mind, he wasn’t sure how to ask.
“What’s up?”
“It’s a health thing. Probably nothing, but—”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Tell me.”
“It’s my eyes. Starting about ten months ago I’ve been having this…wonkiness. Like floaters and flashers and such, a little blurriness here and there.”
“That right?”
“Yeah. And I’ve been so damn busy I haven’t had a chance to have it checked out. But I don’t want to take chances with my vision, you know? Need it for my work and all.”
“I get it. Bad news is, I’m not an eye expert. Good news is, I know one.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Her name’s Dr. Lola Bridges, and she’s one of the best ophthalmologists in the state. I can get you an appointment.”
“That’d be great. But we can talk about tomorrow, yeah?”
Patrick finished his drink and grabbed his bag, and I led him to the spare guest room. There was nothing in there but a bed and a desk.
“Wow,” he said. “I was joking about Ikea, but maybe we oughta take a trip there tomorrow, huh?”
I laughed, giving him a playful punch in the arm. “Get your ass to bed, brother. See you in the morning.”
We said our good nights and minutes later I was in my room, sitting on the edge of my bed and wondering whether or not Patrick was right.
Either way, I had a damn good feeling Kenna’s and my story was far from over.
Chapter 20
KENNA
The first thing I did when I got home was to hurry into the bathroom and make sure I didn’t look as bad as I felt. I’d spent the drive home crying my eyes out, trying to figure out what the hell had happened and how I felt about it all. The tears made it obvious I wasn’t feeling great.
Once I wiped my eyes and washed my face, I stripped out of my clothes and put on the comfiest sweater and pajama bottoms I had before heading to Mom and Dad’s to check on the twins. They were sleeping, the night owl surprisingly still and calm.
Just the sight of the twins at rest had a way of easing my mind, centering my thoughts and reminding me what was important. I kissed their foreheads before carefully shutting the door and heading into the kitchen for a glass of wine. A nice red in hand, I plopped onto the couch and closed my eyes, the events of the night unspooling in my head.
I wanted Finn to be a good dad – I really did. What would be better than him coming back into the kids’ lives, eager and ready to be a father? And what reason would I have to deny him that? The twins would love to have a dad – it’d only mean more love to go around.
But the way he’d hesitated and hedged, made a show about how he wasn’t sure if he’d have the time, that work was just so damn busy that he didn’t know where to fit them in. A dad who popped in and out whenever he found the time to be a parent was the last thing I wanted for Sam and Sophie.
I’d put so much effort into giving them a stable, happy upbringing. What would be worse than injecting randomness into that. They would always be wondering whether or not Finn was coming or going?
And speaking of coming…there’d been the little matter of the sex. What the hell had I been thinking? I knew damn well what I’d been thinking. Finn was so good in bed that it made me crazy just to think about. Even sitting there on the couch drinking my wine in my PJs, the thought of what we’d gotten up to at his apartment was enough to make me wet.
It was an added insult, actually. Maybe a guy like Finn would be fine to keep around as a fuck buddy, but with him being the father of the twins, that was totally impossible.
I sighed, sipping my wine and thinking about what a state my life was in. On top of everything, I had work to worry about.
My heart hurt. I poured myself another glass of wine, hoping the pain would go away, but it didn’t help one bit. Frustrated, I set the wine down and marched up to my room, turning the lights off and getting under the covers.
Confusion whirled in my head, but I was certain of one thing – I had to protect my heart and my family. I’d do what was right by my kids, no matter what.
* * *
“Pop Tarts!”
It was Monday morning, and while I normally loathed giving the kids any food made with chemicals I couldn’t pronounce, Pop Tarts were a Monday treat that always seemed to get them out of bed.
“OK,” I said, leaning against the counter of the kitchen in Mom and Dad’s house, the two boxes of Pop Tarts in my hand. “Do we want the ones with thiomin mononitrate or niacinamide?”
The twins responded with blank looks on their faces, their eyes locked on the boxes of Pop Tarts.
“OK, let me rephrase – do we want strawberry or s’mores?”
“Straw-berry!” Sophia shouted.
“S’more!” Sam rang in.
Now I was speaking their language. I unwrapped the Pop Tarts from their silver space age packaging and dropped them into the toaster.
Mom and Dad were out running some early errands, which meant I had the run of the main house. But I was too focused on work to think about anything other than getting the kids fed and keeping an eye on them until Mom and Dad got back and I could head to work.
The Pop Tarts jumped out of the toaster with a metallic clang, and the twins cheered at the sight
of them.
“These are hot,” I said, putting them on plates and slicing them into little grids of even pieces for them to eat without silverware. “And don’t get too cracked-out on the sugar, alright?”
I set one plate in front of Sam, the other in front of Sophia. They reached for their Pop Tarts with chubby fingers, but I stopped them.
“Ah, ah,” I said. “What do we say?”
“Thank you, Mommy!”
They yelled at the same time, and I couldn’t help but grin, pleased that I’d managed to instill some manners in my children early. Once they were in the process of eating, I grabbed my coffee and my laptop from the counter and sat down at the table with them, making sure to position my computer just out of reach of any potential spills.
I had a busy day lined up. The Valentine’s Day event was in three weeks, and my morning was beginning with a meeting with Chef Bennett. I was looking forward to it – I loved sampling whatever good stuff he had in mind for upcoming events.
After that was a meeting with the charity president, so I needed to be on point. My post-breakfast plan was to run back to the house once Mom and Dad were home and put a decently impressive outfit together.
As I went through my schedule, I was struck by something. I sat up, looking at the scene around me. Sam and Sophia were eating their Pop Tarts, chatting in adorable toddler talk to one another. My coffee was hot and delicious, and the scene outside was one of calm, white, winter.
Being a single mom was hard as hell, but it was these moments, the ones of quiet happiness, that made it all worthwhile. I loved my life and wouldn’t trade it for the world. Sure, it would’ve been nice to have a father in the picture – especially that morning when I would’ve killed for five more minutes in my warm, toasty bed— but if Finn didn’t want to be a part of it, then screw him. More happiness for me.
I hadn’t heard a word from him since our night together. I was beginning to wonder if he was done, if he’d decided that he didn’t want to be a dad and that my life would simply go on as normal.
A bang sounded at the front door, a loud, insistent knock that could only belong to someone who really wanted my attention. The twins stopped eating and looked around curiously.
“Mommy’s got it,” I said. “You guys eat.”
I closed my laptop and hopped out of my chair, hurrying to the front door just in time to hear another round of loud knocks.
“Coming!”
I pulled my robe tight around my waist and checked the peep hole, frowning at the sight of a delivery man. I opened the door to a tall man on the other side, dressed in winter gear, a hat on his head with the logo for a private shipping company. In his hands was a huge box.
“Kenna Jameson?” he asked.
“Uh, yeah.”
He handed the box to me. The box was much heavier than I was expecting, so I quickly set it down just in time for him to hold up a tablet for me to sign electronically.
“What is this?” I asked. “Where’s it from?”
“All that’s on the box,” he said with a smile as I handed him the tablet.
“Oh, okay. Um, let me get you something…” I reached for my purse and began to look through it for a few bucks to give the guy as a tip.
He only smiled and shook his head, holding his hand up to stop me. “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “The sender took good care of me.”
My brows were scrunched as the man bid me good morning before heading back to his vehicle and driving off.
I shut the door and picked up the box. I carried it to the coffee table and left it there, then returned to the kitchen to check on the kids and to grab a small knife. That in hand, I slowly sliced through the packing tape and opened the box. I quickly sifted through the packing peanuts and found two boxes inside. I took one out and set it on the coffee table, followed by the other.
Without bothering to read the label, I opened the first box and pulled back the flaps. Inside was the fanciest doll I’d ever seen in my life. She was about a foot tall, with realistic red hair and a big, sunny smile on her face. Deeper in the box were all kinds of outfits and accessories.
“Mama!”
I froze in shock.
“Let’s go to the beach!”
The doll’s eyes lit up, the eyelids opening and closing, her arms moving up and down.
Oh, great – it’s one of those creepy talking dolls.
I picked up the doll, looking around for some kind of off-switch. After flicking it, I reached into the box and pulled out a small instruction book. The doll was state-of-the art, able to be controlled with an app through my iPhone and was even able to recognize the voice of her owner and learn how to respond. All I could think of as I flipped through the book was how insanely expensive she must’ve been.
The other box was the same story. Inside was a solidly built, steel firetruck, one with bells and lights and all the stuff a boy would be thrilled to own. I set it back in the box and plopped down onto the couch.
I spotted a note in the main box, my name written on the front. I snatched it up and opened it.
A little something for the kids. Hope they enjoy.
Finn
I was fucking furious. The last thing I wanted in my life was some absent father who sent random gifts to the kids to make up for his lack of presence. If he didn’t want to be a part of our lives, that was one thing. If he wanted to be an actually present and accountable parent, that was another. But this in-between shit that would do nothing more than confuse my children. I wasn’t about to have any of that. I stormed into the kitchen, doing my best not to let the twins see how mad I was. I sat down at my MacBook and opened my messages, searching until I found Finn.
Are you kidding me? Finn, how the fuck were you expecting me to react to this? How were you expecting the kids to react to this? What did you think I was going to tell them when they showed up? That Santa found some stuff in the back of his sled that he’d forgotten to drop off? I swear, you really don’t know what you’re doing when it comes to this dad thing, huh?
After typing it all in a fury, I sat back and read it. Then I deleted every word. Relief washed over me as the words vanished, and I said a silent thank you to the inventor of the text message for coming up with a medium of communication that allowed you to get all your thoughts out without actually having to share them. I was still peeved but coming at him like that wasn’t at all the way to do it.
When I was ready, I positioned my hands over the keyboard and calmly typed.
Can we meet? Your office at 12:30?
Three dots in a word bubble appeared right away.
Sounds great.
The guy wearing sunglasses emoji followed. No doubt he was confident at what he’d done, certain he’d hit a home run.
He’d learn.
Finn was about to get a crash course in parenting, whether he liked it or not.
Chapter 21
FINN
I woke up that Monday morning sore as hell. Every damn muscle in my body ached like crazy, even ones I didn’t know I had.
My brother and I had spent Sunday afternoon on a hike in some mountains outside of the city. Patrick had been eager as hell to get out in some wide-open American nature. He’d brought his camera, of course, and about thirty minutes into the hike I realized I’d gotten into the habit of letting a little too much time pass between my gym sessions.
“Good morning, good morning.”
Patrick, of course, was as chipper as ever. I trudged into the kitchen, placing my hand on my hip and stretching out my back.
“Now, what’s all this?” he asked, turning away from the stove and watching me. “A sorry display if I’ve ever seen one.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, dropping into one of the seats at my kitchen bar.
“Something tells me you haven’t gotten out much since you moved to the States.”
“You’re right about that. Most of my waking hours are at the office or here.”
He wagge
d his finger before returning his attention to the stove. “That’s a good way to end up with a paunch like the old man.”
“Alright, alright,” I grouched. “Easy with the comparisons to da.”
Patrick glanced back at me, raising an eyebrow. “Come on then, the man’s not all bad. He’s a hell of a doctor, for one.”
“All the same. Considering what I’m going through with the parenting thing, he’s the last person I want to think of myself as.” Delicious scents filled the kitchen, making my stomach growl. “What are you making over there?”
“Irish breakfast, a’course. Couldn’t sleep a wink last night, so I figured I’d start us off with something good.”
“Why couldn’t you sleep?”
“Too excited from the hike. Spent the whole night in Photoshop getting the photos ready to sell. All part of the hustle, you know?”
He put a plate together, setting it in front of me. There were sausages, tomatoes, beans, eggs, mushrooms, and toast.
“You know,” I said. “I’m not seeing any black pudding.”
He laughed as he made his plate and went for the coffee. “That’s a hell of a way to say thanks.”
“Just saying, we got more of an English breakfast than an Irish one.”
“Don’t say the ‘E’ word in front of me, thank you very much.”
I laughed as Patrick sat down with his plate, putting a cup of steaming black coffee in front of me.
“Now,” he said. “Speaking of fatherhood – you given anymore thought to what you want to do about it?”
My gut tensed at the mention of that particular situation. By then the package I’d sent should’ve arrived. And I hadn’t heard a word from Kenna about it.
“I might’ve done something stupid,” I said.
Patrick gave me a cock-eyed look. “What’s all this? Is my big brother insecure about something? Finn, I’ve never seen you this way about anything – let alone a woman.”
I’d always prided myself on being absurdly sure of myself, even when I had no right to be. After all, if you didn’t believe in yourself, how could you expect anyone else to?
The Irish Doctor’s Secret Babies: A Secret Baby Romance Page 16