CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

SPENCER POV

I only caught a glimpse of her. A flash of pink as she darted from the bathroom area, her presence confirmed by the sound of West’s bedroom door closing across the landing. I don’t know how long she’d been watching, but the thought of her blue eyes staring at my nakedness through steamy glass makes my balls tingle all over again.

 I remind myself that this is unacceptable. I also remind myself that this is also going to be short-lived. A dirty flash in a very dangerous pan, but one I’ll relive over and over in my fantasies when little Violate is long gone.

I rap at her door and give her a few seconds before turning the handle.

Her eyes are wide as I swing the door open and step inside, the bedcovers up to her chin, her pretty cheeks flushed pink. She looks guilty. Embarrassed. Gorgeous.

      It suits her, and does nothing whatsoever to ease the temptation.

      “Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” I say, as though I haven’t got any inkling she’s just watched me whack one off in the shower. I cross the room with her eyes following me all the way, and her eyelashes flutter as I pull the curtains wide. Bright morning sunlight falls perfectly on her blonde hair. She looks so innocent, a little angel in a little girl’s room. “I hope you slept well?”

      She smiles a relieved smile, and she’s so beautiful here, in this room. Her presence brings the place to life again.

      She nods her pretty head. “I did. I slept really well. Thank you. Thank you so much for everything.”

      “Your clothes will be dry,” I tell her, wishing I didn’t have to. “Let’s go down, get some breakfast. Are you hungry? You must be hungry, Violet.”

      She nods again, then throws back the covers, swinging her tiny feet out onto the floor. “Breakfast sounds really, really good.”

      She looks so warm and cosy wrapped in West’s pink dressing gown. The urge to hug her is strong, to feel her tight against me. To hold someone again.

      I take a breath. “Let’s see what we can rustle up.”

      She follows me downstairs with bouncy steps, and her feet barely make a sound on the wooden floor as I lead her through to the kitchen. I pat one of the stools at the breakfast bar and she hitches herself up, adjusting her pink robe with a delightful little hint of self-consciousness that makes my mouth water.

      I know I should show restraint and offer her a regular breakfast. Muesli or yoghurt, like I’ll be having, maybe some toast with marmalade, but that perverse little thrill is tickling through me, and I veer away from sensibility enough to pull out the box of frosted puffs I picked up from the petrol station last night. I shake the box and hold it up for her to see, a grinning cartoon leprechaun gracing the packet.

      “Do you like cereal, Violet? I thought you might like these.”

      How my dick twitches as her eyes light up. “I love frosted puffs! How did you know?!” she says.

      I shrug. “A lucky guess.”

 “They’re the ones with the marshmallow stars, aren’t they? I begged my mum for those when I was little!”

Little. She looks so little. Perched on the stool.

 I pour them into a bowl and pick her out one of my smallest spoons. A little spoon for a sweet little mouth.

  She beams up at me as I place the bowl in front of her, as though I’ve just bought her a show pony, not a cheap box of cereal. I pour the milk, asking her to say when.

 “When!” she giggles, and stirs the bowl with her spoon, watching the marshmallow stars drift around. They turn the milk pink.

I get us both an orange juice and sit myself down opposite her to eat my muesli. I watch everything. The way she scoops out just the right amount of frosted puffs with her stars. The way she closes her eyes as she crunches them. The innocent enjoyment in her smile.

 I would happily watch little Violet eat frosted puffs forever, and I feel a jab of resentment at the knowledge that I won’t. It pains me that such a sweet, gracious girl has nobody waiting back at home to look after her. Nobody is there to keep her safe.

      But that’s not my business, nor my problem.

      “Tell me about, West,” she says, and it catches me off guard.

      My breath catches in my throat. “About West? What do you want to know?”

  She smiles. “Where is she? I guess she doesn’t live here anymore?”

      “No,” I say. “West’s long gone from here.”

      “All grown up,” she grins, and it’s the perfect opportunity for a subject change.

      “So, how does it feel to be an official adult?” I ask. “Eighteen is a big milestone.”

      She shrugs. “I don’t feel any different. I’ve kinda had to be an adult for a long time. Well, as much of an adult as I can be.” Her smile doesn’t mask her sadness, not quite. “I mean, it’s my mum. She’s just… she worked, when I was little. It was hard for her to take care of me. She tried.”

      Somehow I doubt that.

      “So you had to take care of yourself?”

      She nods, “Yeah. Nothing wrong with that though, right? It’s good to be able to take care of yourself. I cook a mean toasted sandwich. Microwave meals? No problem.” She giggles, but it sounds false. I don’t answer and she sighs. “West is really lucky to have a dad like you. I’d have loved to have a dad like you.”

      “Thank you,” I say, and the words almost stick in my throat.

      “I mean it,” she says. “Her room is amazing. The writing on her wall… her fairytale castle… all the toys she had…” 

 “Toys don’t mean anything,” I tell her. “It’s love that matters.”

 Her spoon stops mid-air, and her eyes stare into mine. “I wouldn’t know.” She shakes her head, checks herself. “Sorry. Way too much information.” She pulls a stupid face, tips her head to the side. “Stop talking now, Violet.” She dips her spoon back into the bowl and stirs the cereal.

      “No,” I say. “Don’t stop talking. Not unless you want to, of course.”

      She fishes out a pink star. “These are really yummy.”

      I take the hint. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

      “So much,” she says. “Really, really much.”

      She finishes up the bowl, and spoons up every last drop of milk. Then she waits. Watch me finish my muesli with a gentle smile on her face.

      We sit in silence for a moment, and there’s a feeling in me, a desperate urge to tell her she doesn’t have to go home to an empty house, where nobody really cares about her. To tell her I like her. To tell her I want to take care of her, the way I wanted to take care of West all those years ago.

      To tell her the truth.

      I tell her nothing, just put our empty bowls in the sink and gather her clothes from the laundry room. She takes them from my arms, tells me thanks, and I force out the words I need to say.

      “We’d better be getting you home.”