Smile wide and his eyebrows wagging, Donovan stole a kiss which Layla seemed too surprised to pull away from. “Sorry. Rain check on going mctavish, right?”
She pushed him out of the bathroom and he could tell she was trying hard not to laugh at him. “You owe me, Donley.”
“And I’ll pay you back.” He finished tugging his shirt on and winked at her. “You’ll love how I pay back. Promise.”
Layla’s mother took an early morning Yoga class every Saturday at seven a.m. She did this because standing in front of an operating table for hours on end wore down her back and because her husband tended to be grumpy after he came home from a weekend morning rugby practice. Her mother confessed to Layla that she needed to be relaxed and centered when the usual “those boys are lazy” ranting came along with her father’s return from the pitch.
So Layla considered it a blessing that the house was empty when she returned from Donovan’s that morning. The kitchen was clean, the marble tops pristine, with only her mother’s leather bag and hospital I.D. badge cluttering up counters.
Layla walked to the sink, turning the faucet to fill the short tumbler she grabbed from the white cabinets, when two piercing barks echoed around the silent house and her furry little Maltese, Honey, was in her arms. “Did you miss me, baby? I missed you,” she said, nails under his chin scratching as she spoke in that same stupid tone everyone uses when around animals and infants. “Yes I did. Yes mummy did. Who’s mummy’s ickle lil man? You are. Yes, you are, aren’t you…”
“Layla, that dog has no idea what you’re saying.”
“Daddy! Shit!” Layla’s heart jumped almost out of her chest, but she quickly corrected herself from the rude curse when her father frowned at her as he walked into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. “Why aren’t you at practice?” she asked breathlessly. Honey followed her father, jumping on his leg, begging for a scratch.
Her father cocked an eyebrow as he poured a cup in his thermos and pushed her dog back with his foot. He wore his usual coaching garb—Cavanagh Rugby ball cap, a red polo with the university logo on the pocket and black track pants. Her father was pushing fifty, but he was fit, had broad shoulders and a rugged face that made his bright blue eyes shine against his pale skin.
“I’m coach, right? I can be late. Besides, I told Declan to run them through drills. They’re getting sloppy.”
“Oh. I, um…” Layla looked through the sunroom window and noticed her father’s BMW wasn’t out in the driveway. The early morning sunlight caught on the farmhouse table in the breakfast nook and Layla blinked quickly, moving her head back from the glare. “How are you getting to the pitch?”
“That’s why I was going to be late. I need you to bring me.” He took a long sip from his thermos, eyes closed as he drank and Layla took a second to straighten her shirt and run her fingers through her ratted hair before her father set his mug on the counter and folded his arms across his chest. “My car is getting a rotation. I texted you last night.” Her father was intimidating. Most people thought so, but they only saw the gruff, confident rugby coach who could put down men twice his size with one hard stare. Layla knew he was really just a big teddy bear. Except when he was annoyed or irritated and most of the time when he was in that mood, it was Layla’s fault. His Cinderella princess was long gone and sometimes Layla hated that her father knew that. This morning, unfortunately, seemed to be no exception.
He had this frustratingly easy way of looking at her, calm, cool, as though he could read her mind. It drove Layla crazy and he did that, just then, with his arms crossed, his eyes scrutinizing her face as though he expected her to spill her secrets right out onto the kitchen floor. Just a few seconds under that stare and Layla felt self-conscious, awkward that he was likely accessing the state of her clothes and the rumpled mess that was her hair.
“And where were you last night that kept you from returning my text?”
“Daddy…” She stood next to him, trying to kiss his cheek, hoping that the sweet princess act would work on him. It was early, he likely wasn’t fully awake and therefore had dulled senses, but her father wasn’t falling for it—he was accustomed to her little game and highly alert to bullshit. She was pressing her luck with the go-to princess act and her father confirmed it as he pulled away from her with his nostrils flaring.
“Cut the crap. Your clothes are wrinkled, your hair is a mess and you smell like sweat and…” he leaned forward and sniffed her, shaking his head with a disgusted frown on his face. “Regret. Sweat and regret, Layla.”