She rolls her eyes up to the crystal chandelier above us. “Ugh, he’s a jerk,” she groans. The idea that he’s been a jerk to her makes me equally angry and relieved. That fucking kid. But at least he’ll be out of her life now.
“Hmm,” I say nonchalantly. It’s not my place to get involved. I take a sip of my drink and look out across the room. The restaurant is filling up and there’s a hub of noise and activity in the centre, but the padded booth seems to muffle the sound somewhat. Our table is at a peaceful remove.
I make a few suggestions to Hazel and when the waiter comes back I order for us. Oysters and champagne to start, then the braised beef cheek for me and the pan-roasted chicken for Hazel. I soften my stance on alcohol and let her share my champagne when the oysters arrive.
She’s never had oysters before, but approaches them gamely, cringing slightly the first time the cool, slippery flesh slides down her throat but then smiling and widening her eyes with pleasure at the salty taste. I have a visceral response watching her tilt her head back and swallow the briny delicacy-a sudden, physical pull, and an extremely inappropriate gathering of heat in my groin. I pinch my eyebrows and look away.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Nothing, baby,” I say softly. “Everything’s perfect.”
By the time we’re on dessert-a tasteful chocolate mousse for Hazel, presented with a restrained display of fanfare from our waiter, and a whiskey for me-we’re back on the topic of dating.
“So when’s the last time you went on a date?” Hazel asks.
For some reason, I hesitate. Curiously, it feels like a betrayal. “I was on a date last week when you had Kye over,” I answer, taking a sip of my drink.
Hazel flashes her eyes at me. “You were? Last week?”
“Mm-hm,” I nod, trying not to think too much about it. ‘Daddy’s gonna have his hands full,’ Cynthia’s voice whispers from my memory.
“So you’re dating someone?”
“No. It was a first date. It wasn’t a…” I search for my words, “a match.”
“I guess not,” she says wickedly, “considering how early you got home.”
I train my eyes on her for a moment, not reacting and not looking away. It’s the provocative comment of a grown woman, and to be honest, it catches me off guard. It’s Hazel fishing for information about my sex life. I rest my elbow on the table and run a finger across my lower lip thoughtfully until a flush spreads on her cheeks and she ducks her eyes.
“What would have happened if I didn’t get home when I did?” I ask her, still watching her intently. My voice is low and quiet; serious. She blinks her big blue eyes up at me.
“Nothing,” she says shyly. “Nothing more than…what did happen.”
Hazel’s red head bobbing in that kid’s lap is an image I’ll never forget. The idea of what her mouth might have felt like, her tongue, makes my balls ache.
“You’re saying you wouldn’t have had sex with him?”
She shakes her head mutely. I wonder how I would have felt if I had walked in the room to find her naked underneath him.
“It made me jealous to see that,” I say, suddenly and unexpectedly. The comment seems to come from nowhere, I didn’t expect to say it, but now that I have, I don’t back away from it. I keep my eyes on her face to see her reaction.
The colour spreads on her cheeks, but she doesn’t seem upset. She blinks. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
It’s the rawest I’ve ever felt. For a moment, we hold each other’s eyes, saying nothing. My blood is thundering through my veins. I’ve crossed a line, broken down a boundary, but I don’t know how far I’ve gone, where this leads. Nowhere, maybe. Regardless, I’ve said something forbidden. I’ve forced a change.
Gritting my teeth, I take a breath and reach for my little girl’s hand. “Hazel,” I say, my voice husky and low. But before I can say anything more, the waiter’s voice interrupts us.
“Will there be anything else for you tonight?”
I wrench my eyes to the side to see him standing at the table, innocently unaware of the moment he just interrupted.
“Nothing else,” I answer, releasing Hazel’s hand. “Just the bill.”
He turns to leave and I look back at her, a sense of horror settling over me. She gives me a half-smile, expectant and inquisitive, and I run my hand through my hair and compose myself.
I’m on the verge of making a move on my stepdaughter. The heat that’s been coursing through my veins turns to pure, burning shame.
“Time to go,” I say, once I’ve signed the bill. I’m brusque now, all business.
“Yes, Daddy,” she says sweetly, swinging her long legs to the side of the bench to stand up and absolutely gutting me.