“He’s perfect, baby,” I said to my exhausted partner as she cradled our newborn son against her chest. “He’s so perfect.”
“He looks so much like ye’, Dominic.” Bronagh smiled. “We have a mini me and now a mini you.”
“How did we get so lucky?” I asked, amazed. “How did I get so lucky?”
Bronagh smiled up at me, so I leaned down, closing the distance between us, and brushed my lips over hers.
“What will we name him?”
“I love the name Beau.”
I raised a brow and leaned back. “How do you spell that?”
“B-E-A-U.”
“That’s pronounced Bo, baby. I like that, though. Let’s name him that.”
Bronagh blinked. “No, it’s pronounced Beau as in beautiful.”
“In the States—”
“We aren’t in the States,” she tiredly interrupted. “I like Beau bein’ pronounced like the word beautiful. Bo can be his nickname, if you’re so pressed about it.”
“Okay.” I chuckled. “His name is Beau like beautiful, and Bo will be his nickname. I’ll inform my brothers of this to avoid your wrath.”
Bronagh smiled. “What will his middle name be?”
My heart warmed when I said the name, “Damien.”
My girl beamed up at me. “Beau Damien Slater. I love it, I love him ... I can’t wait for Georgie to see ‘im. She’s a big sister now.”
“Alannah will bring her up when I call,” I assured her. “She’ll be with us soon.”
Bronagh closed her eyes and snuggled Beau.
“I love our family.”
“I love you, pretty girl.”
“I love you too, fuckface.”
“Let him go, Georgie,” I said, my mind snapping back to the present.
“He has me phone, Da!”
“Let him go,” I repeated, sternly. “Now.”
Georgie gave Beau’s neck one last squeeze before she released him and forcefully shoved him to the floor. I folded my arms across my chest and stared down at my only daughter. She placed her hands on her hips and stared right back at me. I looked at my son as he groaned on the floor, then looked back at Georgie.
“Was that really necessary?”
“Yeah,” she answered without hesitation. “He took me phone without permission, Da.”
I looked at Beau. “Why’d you take her phone?”
He groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, then straightened up to his full height. He was fourteen, but he already dwarfed Georgie’s five-foot-two frame with his five-foot-eight one. When he stood next to her, it always amused me. He was fifteen months younger than she was, and he physically looked down at her. My daughter, however, never let a trivial thing like height stop her when it came to disciplining her brothers or any of her many male cousins. She’d had years of practice on how to harm them when she needed to. Or wanted to.
“I was only messin’ with ‘er, Da,” Beau said before glancing sideways at his sister. “She’s a bleedin’ psycho.”
Georgie kicked Beau in the shin. He yelped, grabbed his shin with both hands, and hopped around on one foot.
“Bo, give your sister back her phone,” I ordered. “And George, stop hitting your brother.”
I hoped by using their nicknames, the situation would calm to somehow make it playful, but Georgie’s antsy teenage attitude refused to cooperate.
“No promises,” she said to me as she snapped her phone out of Beau’s outstretched hand. “Next time, Bo, I’m breakin’ your bloody leg.”
She turned and stormed down the hall and into her bedroom, the door clanking shut behind her. Beau shook his head, then his leg, before he lowered his foot to the ground and trained his eyes on me.
“Ye’ need to send ‘er to a mental institution, Da,” he said, his face the picture of seriousness. “She is a bloody nightmare.”
I raised a brow. “She wouldn’t bother you if you didn’t touch her things.”
“I wouldn’t bother ‘er if she didn’t annoy the life outta me.”
I lifted my hand to my face and pinched the bridge of my nose.
“It’s too early to deal with this.”
“It’s after nine.”
I dropped my head. “Exactly. That’s early.”
Beau snorted as shouting and a bellow from my wife sounded from downstairs.
“Not in this house.”
I pointed at my son. “Leave your sister alone. Otherwise, she’ll whoop you.”
“Only ‘cause I won’t hit ‘er back!”
“I know.” I grinned. “When you’re bigger and fill out more, she won’t be able to grapple you so easily.”
“I can’t feckin’ wait.”
“Language.”
“Feckin’ isn’t a curse.” Beau rolled his eyes. “And neither is damn or hell.”
“The former can slide because it’s part of everyone’s vocabulary in this country, but if I hear you say the second and third, your ass will be whooped by me. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” I nodded. “Now, go clean your room. It’s Saturday, and you know your mom will raise all kinds of hell if she finds it dirty when she makes her rounds.”
As I walked down the stairs, Beau asked, “How come you get to say hell and not be whooped?”
“Who’s gonna whoop me?”
“You’ve got a point, Da.” Beau paused. “You’ve got a real good point.”