He grins at me, pride flittering across his face. “I know. She’s perfect”
I arch an eyebrow at him, and he sets his mouth in to his typical smirk. “Perfect?” I ask, pretending I don’t already know what he’s implying.
“For him,” he confirms, and I attempt a smile. Moving his hand up, feeding his fingers through my hair, staring at the strands coiled around them, he says, “You up for playing with me today?” His eyes and hands awaken the butterflies that seem to hang out in my stomach these days.
“There is no word more ambiguous thanplayingwhen it comes from your mouth, Bronson Butcher. It could literally mean having a tea party with dolls and teddy bears, shooting something, or fucking, so I’m going to need you to be more specific.”
His dark brows furrow in contemplation. Several long moments pass between us. “Alright,” he finally says, jumping to his feet, the entire length of his masculine physique bared to me. “That’s a great idea.”
Swallowing, I try to focus my attention on his intense stare, not on his cock as it hangs between his thick tattooed thighs. Not on that. “I’m sorry, what? What part?”
“The whole idea.” Moving over to the robe, he grabs his clothes and pulls on a pair of torn faded jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt with a pink bowtie printed on it.
He’s a fucking nutcase.
Studying the bowtie, I say, “Like we are going to have a tea party, shoot something, and then fuck?”
A wicked grin slowly spreads across his lips. “Andthatis why you’re my girl.” He reaches back into the robe, pulling out a black top-hat with a red silk band. Tucked into it is a card with the impossible fraction, 10/6.
I smile through a long, slow exhale, sensing the person he is today. The person he is tothem.The clown. The one who brings them nothing but easy fun times. But I know that tightly wrapped within that facade is the weight of responsibility, the burden of possessiveness. . . and his ownmadness.I sigh, realising he is the one looking after them all the time, which is why he needs me. He pulls his hat on and he’s what they need him to be - their big brother.
“I bet that little girl adores you,” I say through a soft exhale.
He winks at me. As if he’s Casanova in that hat rather than a complete dork. “Feelings mutual,” he states. “Get ready, baby. We have a party to attend.”
* * *
As we take the wooden staircase down to the bottom floor, I steal a moment to appreciate the view through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The horizon is in sight, beyond the canals and rooftops of Connolly. It’s striking.
The entire house is classy.
I look down. The denim shorts I have on are once again a half-size too small, stretching around my arse and thighs like rubber. Tucked into them is a white shirt. My dark waves hang loose and natural down my shoulders, and I doubt that anyone who looks at me would consider meclassy. And they definitely would never guess that I’m a surgeon.
Bronson feeds his hand through mine, walking me out towards the little girl playing with her mum on the grass. They race around clutching bubble makers - big loops that careen through the air - a stream of detergent bubbles trailing them. I glance over at the outdoor lounge to find Max and Luca conversing.
Luca looks the same - salt and pepper coloured hair with a strong build that seems capable of snapping a man in two. Max, quite frankly, is giving off the same intimidating vibe as he did as a kid, but now with the added support of muscles. He’s a polar opposite to his petite wife dancing on the lawn with their daughter. Kelly’s yellow tutu flaps as she tries to copy her mum, spinning and fumbling but smiling as though she is nailing the moves. Cassidy is clearly a dancer, showing her little girl how to turn and use her hands to guide her movements. Max can’t seem to keep his gaze on his dad while they talk; every few seconds it moves to the grass, and he holds his wife and daughter in his line of sight, snagged on them. And I know Max Butcher, andthat look. . . is completely new - enchantment, I’d call it.
I smile at the family he has made for himself.
My feet suddenly slow, thinking about what I did to them, to their family, all those years ago. He was their blood. . . And Clay knew, so they all must have known. Suddenly, my heels dig into the white tiles, grounding me.
Bronson stops as I do, turning to study me as my cheeks drain, pale, and cool.
“Shoshanna,” he says in the tone only he uses when saying my name. “Don’t be nervous, baby.”
I take a big breath in, forcing down my shame, and let Bronson lead me out into the alfresco. As I step outside onto the hardwood decking, I hear a squeal soar through the air.
He squeezes my fingers between his before releasing my hand and squatting down low. Opening his arms wide, he accepts the eager little girl who is barrelling into them.
“Outlaw,” he sings. Standing with her now fastened to his hip, he beams brightly.
She tilts her head, blinking at his hat. “Hat. It’s funny.”
“Yeah, it’s my tea party hat,” Bronson boasts, quickly turning her attention to me. “This is Shoshanna.”
“Not Jasmine?” she pouts, and I grin at the way her freckles bunch on her nose.
Bronson smooths a piece of hair behind my ear. “Well,Ithink she is, but you know, she has to disguise herself when she leaves the castle, cover up, so people don’t recognise her.” He wiggles his brows at me, and I roll my eyes.