I shift my gaze to the play area where dolls sit on the floor in an upright position, some learning toys, a huge doll house that has other various toys, and finally right in the middle, a round table with four small chairs.
A tea pot with several cups are on it and a chocolate bar too. I notice a room to the bathroom and then there is a closed one. Peeking into it, I see what seems like hundreds of dresses with a platform in the middle, surrounded by four mirrors.
Pink and white dominates the color palette. The balcony doors are slightly open, allowing fresh air to slip inside and blow the white and pink curtains back, finishing this magnificent design.
Her room is straight out of a fairytale, the dream every little girl has, I think, or at least what I would have loved to have when I was her age.
“You have a very beautiful room, Emmaline,” I tell her, and she grins, pressing her face into Zachary’s knee before going to her table.
“Daddy made it.”
My brows lift as I look at Zachary, and he shrugs, “The person I originally hired designed it like she was already eighteen or something. Plus, she went for a neutral style—whatever that is.” It doesn’t escape my notice how he holds himself in check and doesn’t curse in front of his daughter. “She was preaching to my three-year-old about the fact that girls don’t have to have pink anything. Emmaline cried for days because of that, and she almost never cries or throws tantrums.” Yes, I can easily believe that, judging by her reaction on the whole lack of present thing. “I told the designer to get lost. My girl loves this color, and I won’t let anyone shame her for it.”
My brows furrow as I watch Emmaline pour make-believe tea into the cups and crack the chocolate so she can put a piece on the side of the saucers. “She was three at the time? That’s how long it took for you to design this house?”
An emotion crosses his face, but it’s so quickly gone I don’t catch it. He gives me amusement instead that doesn’t reach his eyes. “We lived in another house up until a few months ago.”
“All this”—I swirl my finger in the air—“was ready within a few months?” But then I shake my head at myself; of course, it’s possible with the kind of wealth he has. Besides what do I know about designing a house anyway? Sebastian and I only had the beach house given to him by his parents, and the penthouse.
I hadn’t even finished buying furniture for it when the tragedy happened.
Zachary removes his jacket, throwing it on the bed, and I do my best not to pay attention to the flex of his muscles with each move, the six-pack visible even from here, which is so odd, because I wouldn’t call him beefy.
Yet his muscles are so defined, like they are carved from stone, and when you press against them, you almost have the feeling that nothing else in the world has the ability to hurt you, because he’ll protect you.
Groaning at my stupid and horny thoughts, I notice his slight smirk as he must guess what I was thinking about, but since Emmaline is close by, he doesn’t throw any other innuendos. Instead, he answers my earlier question. “I acquired this property a long time ago, but Angelica preferred a different style, so I let go of the idea.” He waits a bit before adding, “But it didn’t feel right living in that house anymore, and to be completely honest, I couldn’t care less for it.”
“I see,” I reply, reading between the lines, because I can’t help it with my profession. It’s common for people to move to a different place after the loss of a spouse if they have the means or opportunity to do so, especially when they start dating again and it feels like from every corner your dead spouse is watching you.
Zachary clacks his tongue. “No, Ms. Shrink, it’s not because of that.” I blink at this. How can he possibly guess what I was thinking about? “This house belonged to my mom, and I want Emmaline to grow up here. It holds good memories; the other house… not so much.” His gaze clashes with mine as he says, “I became a monster in that house, capable of doing a lot of stuff I’m not proud of.” I quickly glance at Emmaline to make sure she doesn’t hear us, but she seems to be in her own world, still preparing the tea party and humming some tune.
“Sometimes grief changes us in a way we don’t expect,” I say, shocking both of us with my words, if his surprised look is anything to go by. “Still, the pain is no excuse for anything, is it?”
“No, it’s not.” His voice drops, but I don’t have time to examine it.
“It’s ready!” Emmaline shouts and motions for us to sit down, and we do. I almost burst out laughing when Zachary can barely fit on one of the chairs, his long legs almost up to his chin, but he puts them a bit apart so he can have access to the table.
I’m much smaller than him, so it’s easier for me to get comfortable on the chair as Emmaline announces, “Welcome to my tea party.” She picks up her cup and raises it to her mouth, inhaling the pretend rich smell and then closes her eyes. “It’s chamomile tea to soothe you.” She smiles, the dimple in her cheek more visible at this, and she says, “That’s what Patience said, but she likes coffee, so she’s not invited.”
Zachary and I share an amused glance—more like Emmaline didn’t want her for other reasons. The lady is probably nice and all, but for a perky three-year-old, she might be too strict and calm sometimes.
She peeks one eye open. “Well, what are you waiting for?” She points at the cups. “Drink!”
We pick up our cups as well, and seeing Zachary hold a tiny, pink, porcelain thing is hilarious, and we all lift them to our mouths, taking an imaginary greedy gulp where I pretend to love it so much, groaning in pleasure.
“It’s good right?” Emmaline watches Zachary, who gives her a thumbs up.
“The best tea I’ve ever tried, baby girl.”
She giggles. “You said that about my last tea party.”
He winks. “That’s because your tea gets better and better.”
“I practice,” she tells me and pours us all some more before tapping on the saucer. “Try the chocolate. Daddy brought it to me from Swit- Swit- Swit-something,” she finishes, giving up on the country name and popping a chocolate in her mouth.
“Switzerland,” Zach corrects her and slides the saucer toward me. “It’s really good.”
“I bet,” I say and take one piece, putting it in my mouth, and moan when it melts on my tongue.
Emmaline jumps up to me, abandoning her teacup and placing both her hands on the table as she leans in my direction. “Is it good?” I nod and she gives me thumbs up. “I was right.” Then she runs to Zachary, and he manages to catch her in time before she knocks both of them out of the chair. “Daddy, you promised to come to my ballet. It’s in two weeks.” She splays her palm open as if wanting to emphasize it. “Don’t forget.” Then she half turns to me. “You too.”
The little girl doesn’t even question why I’m around her dad or in this house, doesn’t ask me thousands of questions as I imagine kids her age do, but instead oddly takes it all in stride.
And it takes me a moment to realize that’s how much she trusts Zachary; she knows she is under his protection no matter what happens to her, and she can run to him with any request.