Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 103050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
He smiles and his gaze slides to his daughter. I can tell he’s not saying what’s on his mind.
And that’s okay.
There’s time.
“You haven’t opened your present, Daddy.”
“Oh yes.” He pours us two glasses of red wine and hands one to me.
Willow’s getting impatient. She slides out from the bench and picks up his gift bag from where he’s left it on the counter. “Here, Daddy. Open it.”
He pokes about in the white tissue paper and pulls out the snow globe. It’s the Manhattan skyline, and it looks a lot like the view from the rooftop where we had dinner the other night.
“I love it!” Willow squeals. “Does it work, Daddy? Turn it upside down.”
His gaze slides to mine as he tips the snow globe upside down. “A memory of an incredible evening. Thank you.”
He leans forward and kisses my cheek.
Willow squeals again. “Daddy, you just kissed her!”
My face flushes with heat. Never has any interaction between Deacon and me been so chaste, but I feel like I’ve been caught dry humping him on the street.
“It’s a beautiful snow globe, isn’t it?” Deacon asks, ignoring her comment about his kiss.
She holds out her hands, ready to be given the snow globe.
“Finish your dinner, then run and wash your hands and then you can hold it, if you’re very careful.”
She nods and starts shoveling food into her mouth. I try not to burst out laughing. She’s going to make herself sick.
“I’m finished, Daddy,” she says.
The nanny comes over and clears her plate straightaway. I wonder if it’s weird for Deacon to have the nanny here all the time. He seems to be so hands-on. The nanny then leads Willow into the back, presumably to wash her hands.
“Have you had your nanny long?” I ask.
“Lucia’s been with us since Willow was born.”
“Wow. That’s so nice. Does she work the entire week, so Willow’s mother has her help as well?” I deliberately say “Willow’s mother” and not “your ex,” as that’s how he always refers to her. I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t consider her an ex or because he wants to remind himself that she’s his daughter’s mother.
“Absolutely. We have a different woman at weekends. But I wanted Willow to have that consistency.”
“You’re a good dad,” I say.
“I do the best I can.”
Gently, I touch the back of his arm. I want him to know he’s incredible.
Willow returns, her arms outstretched. “Can I have a turn, Daddy?”
“Sit down and keep a firm grip.”
Willow slides back onto the bench, her face fixed with an expression of determination. She takes the snow globe in both hands and turns it upside down.
“Okay, put it on the table now,” Deacon says.
Willow places it down in front of her, the white flecks of snow falling over the skyline. It looks magical. Just like our date together.
Deacon turns to me. “It’s lovely.”
My chest warms. He’s thinking about that perfect night. No one will ever top a date like that. When I go back home to Chilternshire, there are plenty of nice views, but they’re of rolling countryside and trees. I don’t think there’s a rooftop restaurant in the entire county.
Not that I’d want anyone to try to recreate it. It could only come up short. I’d be forced to compare and that wouldn’t be fair.
When the snow finally settles, Willow reaches for the snow globe again and turns it upside down.
“Last time,” Deacon says. “Then it’s bedtime.”
“I need my hair in a braid,” she says. “And you need the practice.”
“I meant to book into that course,” Deacon mumbles.
“A course?” I ask.
“I’m not very good at doing Willow’s hair. There’s a course in Midtown that teaches hair plaiting. I keep meaning to sign up, but…”
He pulls out his phone and voice notes someone, presumably his assistant, asking them to find a space in his diary.
“Braiding,” Willow corrects him. “You’re in America. You can’t call it plaiting.”
Deacon shoots me a look that says can you believe the sass? And I do my best not to laugh.
“How about I talk you through the basics?” I offer.
“Can you do French braids?” Willow asks.
“They’re my favorite,” I say. “I do my goddaughter’s hair all the time. And my own.”
“You can French braid your own hair?” she asks.
“Absolutely. That’s how I learned. Do you have a bobble?” I ask.
“A bobble?” Willow says in a funny voice. “What’s a bobble?”
“To fix the end,” I say. “Is bobble a British term?” I ask, amused. I’ve never thought about it.
“You’ll be surprised which words are different,” Deacon says.
The nanny hands Deacon a brush and a bobble, and he sighs, almost accepting defeat before we’ve even started.
“You’re going to be fine,” I say, trying to reassure him. “Willow, you sit here on this stool,” I say, pulling a stool from under the counter.
Deacon’s expression suggests he’s about to dive into certain death.