Their eyes widened.
“The weight of two hundred lemons still weighed down his legs.”
“Oh, no,” Izzy breathed.
He tapped her nose. “Precisely. The poor cat could not move to get to the kitchen to make his delicious tarts.”
Freddy’s breath caught in her throat with that innocent little gesture. His fingertip. Izzy’s nose. A fatherly gesture that sliced her open and reknit her together in a different shape entirely. She forced air back into her lungs and counted her breaths to make sure they did not stop again. But she could not help but notice—each breath she took now mingled with his exhalations. And her daughters. As if they’d discovered a new point in the intimate space between them all. She clutched her skirts, unable to clutch her heart as her body wished to do. How else to keep it quiet so they did not hear its wild, erratic keening in the bone cage of her ribs?
“What did he do?” Bridget asked.
“He took all the lemons out of his pockets and squeezed a little bit of juice out of each one. Then he put them back in, took them home, and made tarts out of them. The end. Don’t you just love a happy ending?”
They stared at him, mouths agape.
“You’re both astounded by the brilliance of my tale. I’ll have to regale you another time.”
“But,” Bridget said, “I have a few questions, Mr. Webster.”
He stood, crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, no. Questions ruin the mystique.”
Izzy giggled.
Freddy leaned in low, kissed their foreheads, and pulled their blanket up high. “To sleep now. The both of you.”
They burrowed in, eyes drooping.
“G’night, Mama.” Bridget’s eyes closed.
A glitter caught in Izzy’s eye, lifted her mouth in a slow smile. “Pretty Mama. I want a gown”—she yawned, mouth gaping wide—“like that when I grow up.” Then rubbed her face in her pillow and snored.
Freddy stood, the thumping of her heart pulsing the corners of her lips up into happiness. She pressed a hand to her chest, her heart full to bursting, and left the room.
Grant waited for her in the hall, a shoulder propped against the wall next to the door. “Pretty Mama, indeed. And”—he whistled, igniting a low spark on her skin—“what a gown.”
“Do you like it?” She sauntered down the hall, pulling him away from the nursery door and toward the shadows at the end of the hall. She’d been craving a flirtation all night, craving him to be exact, and he’d found her out. She would make use of it.
He caught a fold of her skirts, stopping her, and pressed his front against her back. “Yes. And I’m not the only one.” He put one foot in front of the other, marching her toward the wall.
Mere inches from its hard, looming darkness, she whirled, pressed her back against it and gasped as his chest pressed against her own, harder than the wall, certainly more alive. Above her, his eyes glinted, moons, omens foretelling the—ah, yes—the singe of his hands on her bare arms. He’d stripped his gloves off at some point, and his rough palms caught her, held her, an abrasive caress that pulsed a beat of need low in her belly.
“Freddy darling.” A lion’s harsh purr as his lips hovered over hers. So close.
Why did he not drop further, steal her breath as she wished him to? Her need dove deep tonight, had taken root somewhere between magical cat trousers and lemon tarts. Absurd. But weren’t matters of the heart often so?
Matters of the heart? Truly?
His lips met hers, and with heart-worries pounding fear through her veins, she did not meet him for a kiss but turned her head from him, so his kiss landed on her cheek.
He did not seem to mind. He tightened his grip on her arms and feathered kisses down her jaw. “You looked … friendly with the boxer fellow.”
She pressed her eyes closed. Something in his tone made her think of a fox with sharp teeth, hunting. “He is a friendly fellow.”
“Too friendly?” A growl at her ear, the nip of teeth on her earlobe.
She pressed her palms to his chest and pushed. “You sound … jealous?”
“Not at all. It’s merely occurred to me that we’ve never discussed the parameters of our little relationship.”
