“What are you doing?”
A little voice stops me in my tracks. I pause, my mind scanning for plausible reasons I’m creeping through his house. Also, was that a genuine enquiry or more a case of you’re so busted?
Fuck it. He’s seven. What could he know about last night?
“Mornin’, little mate,” I say cheerfully as I turn. “What’re you doing up so early?”
“It’s not early. It’s nearly seven.”
For a moment, he looks like Sally, my mum. All he’s missing is a mop of pale hair and a pink robe. He’s got the accusatory tone down, perfectly.
“Is it?” I pat my pockets, only just realising I’m missing something. “I seem to have lost my phone. I thought I’d left my phone here last night, but I can’t see it, so I’ll just be on my way to give the pixie house a second look.”
“No, it’s here. You left it on the kitchen table.” He slides his hand into the front pocket of his Star Wars dressing gown, pulling it out.
“That’s where I left it!” My tone matches the slap I deliver to my forehead. But it must be too early for slapstick comedy because Wilder just frowns. “I’ve looked all over,” I say, slipping it into the back pocket of my jeans. “Thanks, little bud.”
“Did you leave your shoes here, too?” He frowns at the one I still have in my hand. One on my hand, the other on my foot.
I consider it a denial, but I’d probably just be digging this hole bigger.
“Maybe you took them off at the door,” he offers with an astute look.
I chuck the shoe on the floor and pull out one of the kitchen chairs. I don’t want to kick off fatherhood with an untruth. “Let’s sit down, shall we? It looks like you and I need to have a conversation.”
His shoulders lift and fall unconcerned before he takes a seat on the chair next to me.
“Have you ever had a sleepover?” I begin.
“Sure. I stayed at Ethan’s one time. It was his birthday.”
“That’s kind of what happened here. I fell asleep after . . . spending some time with your mum. I promised I wouldn’t, but I did, so I was creeping out before she noticed.”
“You didn’t want her to get mad,” he says, his fine, dark brows pinching together.
“That’s right.”
“If you’re gonna have a sleepover, you really should bring pyjamas.”
I drop my head to smother my smile and nod to cover my amusement. Poor kid. But there must be a time in every child’s life when they stumble across their father, stark bollock naked in the kitchen. And if you’re really unlucky, you might end up being traumatised by the sight of your old folks going at it. Yeah, that happened, though I was nearer seventeen than seven.
“But you’re my dad. I know moms and dads sometimes have s—”
“Sleepovers,” I interject, slightly concerned by where that might’ve gone. I don’t want to lie to my son, but I’d prefer to ease into fatherhood. This feels more like being dropped in at the deep end. Surely seven-year-olds don’t need to know about sex.
“Miss Betty says all children should be born after the mom and dad get married. Otherwise, it’s s—”
“Silly?” I interject for the second time because, fuck me. It should be illegal to talk about the birds and the bees before coffee. No, before he’s old enough to drink beer!
“Sin.” Wilder furrows his brow, like he’s trying to remember. “Sin is bad, right?”
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath, hooking my elbow onto the tabletop. Looks like I’m here for the long haul.
“That’s a blaspheme. Taking the Lord’s name in vain,” adds my helpful little evangelical.
“Thanks. Personally, I don’t think he’d mind it. Jesus, I mean.” Wilder’s expression is the personification of huh? “I just reckon if someone said my name every time they had a close call or a surprise, or they needed to express something happy or even a shock, I think I wouldn’t mind if it was my name. I think the big man upstairs wouldn’t mind, either.” He looks unconvinced. “Oh, Roman!” I press my hand to my chest with the exclamation. “That pot of paint nearly fell on my head.” The kid smiles, all teeth and ears. “Oh, my Wilder!” I exclaim. “Did you see the teeth on that lion? He nearly bit a hole in my toga!” He giggles, and the sound just lightens my heart.
Oh, Roman. Please, I don’t think I can come again. Yeah, I know. Now isn’t an appropriate time for that thought, even if Kennedy makes me feel like God himself when I’m between her legs.
“Doesn’t sound so bad, does it?”
“I guess not,” he says, his mood seeming to have lightened.
“And then you’ve got to ask yourself how qualified is Miss Betty to give advice.”
“She is kind of old,” he reasons.