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It starts with Tabitha.
He knew introducing Cameron to the children would be delicate work, particularly where his daughter was concerned. She was a Campbell-Black through and through, stubborn and set in her ways. A discerning judge of character, he told people.
Bas referred to her as a tiny warlord, striking down any woman who dared pull her father’s attention away.
“Not always a bad thing,” he had joked, a tumbler of whisky in hand. “Better Tab bites them than Beaver.”
He had really tried with Cameron, using a gentle hand to introduce the two. It was like bringing a new dog into a pack, quick encounters were key before they were fully ingratiated. But Tabitha had been born with canine teeth, sharpened like knives. No amount of soft introductions would have led to a successful interaction.
Except when Taggie came around. Taggie, who brought fudge and carrots for the horses. Who complimented Tabitha on her skirt, not her face. His daughter was shrewd, knew an adult was pandering to her parents rather than her. It had taken all of thirty seconds for her to approve of Taggie, taking her hand and leading her into their home.
It should have been fine. Idolization of a pretty, older girl was common amongst Tabitha’s peers. He knew through the grapevine that Tab and her friends all followed Emma Holliwell around the barn, the junior coach with long blonde hair always tucked in a neat braid. He had spent a full month braiding Tabitha’s hair for her lessons, the little girl insistent that it needed to be just like Emma’s.
But when the waitress came over, commenting on how lovely his three children were, and Tabitha’s smile curled mischievously, he knew he was in danger.
“Taggie’s not my sister,” she said sweetly, long eyelashes batting at the waitress. “She’s my mummy.”
And just like that, he’s done for. Marcus looks shocked, eyes trained carefully on his sister. The waitress is taken aback, clearly trying to puzzle out the age gap between Taggie and the kids.
Despite it all, Taggie laughs. “You’re funny, Tab,” she murmurs, wrapping an arm around the girl. “Here, do you want my chips?”
The rest of their conversation is drowned out by the chaos in his head. Taggie, mummy. Taggie, as his wife. His wife, his girl, his sweet little teenager. Every possibility he has ever imagined, every late-night dream that wakes him from slumber with Taggie’s name a ghost on his lips. It all comes rushing back, a tsunami of longing that overtakes him.
It also makes him stupid.
“Can we get the bill,” he asks the waitress, a dazzling smile curling across his face. “We’re taking mummy to the movies, right kids?”
Marcus simply shrugs, looking out the window like his real family is coming for him, a group of normal people who will take him home. Tabitha cheers, stuffing a handful of chips into her mouth and squawking about how excited she is to see The Princess Bride. And Taggie, she just blushes. Warm pink flushes her cheeks, her neck. He yearns to kiss the skin, feel exactly how warm it gets and how far down it goes.
Soon.
The movie is surprisingly delightful, mainly because he is able to convince Taggie that the best seat in the house is in his lap. It only lasts five minutes into the previews, his angel too squirmy for him to continue in a G-rated manner, but the time he has with her soft curves pressed against him are heavenly. The kids enjoy it too, both of them fighting over who gets to sit beside Taggie, who gets to share popcorn with her, and which one of them gets to sit in the back of the Aston on the ride home.
He wins the last battle, winking at the kids. “You two got her for the whole movie. I think my wife should sit with me, right?”
Taggie’s face might become permanently flushed. He wouldn’t mind, the pretty pink highlighting the blue in her eyes and the delicate freckles that line her nose. She looks up at him, a shy smile on her lips, as she holds Tabitha’s hand across the seat gap and listens to the younger girl chat about the movie.
Her game plan is still unclear, his daughter slyly eyeing the hand he rests on Taggie’s leg the entire drive. He should feel self conscious of little eyes, watching as his thumb strokes back and forth over the soft skin of Taggie’s thigh. But when Tab asks if she can braid Taggie’s hair and his angel agrees, moving the bulk of her curls over the back of the car seat and exposing the long line of her neck to him, he simply can’t find it in him to care.
Then, the final blow. Marcus pulls a book from his bag, flipping open the pages until he finds where he left off. Taggie simply gives him a smile in the rearview mirror, asking quietly what he’s reading and oh, he would mind reading aloud, she loves Roald Dahl. His son is radiant, crooked teeth bared in a rare grin before he carefully starts on chapter four of Matilda.
It feels real, a tease of what their life could be. Days out with the children, shared stories before bed. Sun-soaked memories that will carry him through the cold nights he spends locked in Parliament’s chambers. A glimpse into the future, where he trades the Aston for something only slightly more practical, safety over style. A carseat, a baby strapped in tight and gurgling at the sight of her siblings.
He’s getting ahead of himself. He hasn’t even had her yet, the spread of her red hair across his pillow as she arches closer to him a dream rather than reality. Not for long, he thinks, edging his fingertips just under the hem of her skirt and watching as she shivers with delight. In retaliation, she grabs his hand, holding it steady in her lap as she traces over his fingers. His ring finger is held hostage, swirls and hearts traced over the skin, a love letter written into his flesh.
The game begins to fade as they pull into Helen and Malise’s neighbourhood. The kids are quick to point out landmarks, places where they crashed bicycles and where their friends live. Taggie nods along, categorizing it all, asking questions when all he usually does is hum in response. She’s better at this than him, he thinks, eyes glancing over at her. Not surprising in the slightest. She is simply better than most people.
Helen is waiting at the front door, a frigid figure in a blouse and pearls. He can tell that she is less than impressed by him, almost half an hour late with a stranger in the car. But then Tab is bursting from the backseat, yanking open the passenger door and insisting that Taggie must come see her room, and Dollop, chattering on and on until they have passed his ex-wife and bolted up the stairs.
“Picked up a stray, Rupert?” The clipped accent of hers, always stronger when she’s angry, drips with disdain. “Didn’t know you ran a babysitting service these days.”
Eyes rolling, he pulls Tabitha’s abandoned backpack from the car and slings it over his shoulder. Marcus, left behind by his sister, shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot. He has always suffered the most in these arguments, torn between which parent he should side with. Their most volatile fights have triggered asthma attacks in the past, something he prays will never be repeated. Because of this, he keeps a tight lid on the words he wants to say, choosing instead to offer Helen a forced smile. “Taggie joined us today. We all had a nice time, isn’t that right Marcus?”
The boy nods, watching his mother’s expression wearily. “She’s nice. Let me practice my reading aloud and didn’t even notice that I stumbled a few times.”
Helen’s face softens slightly, almost invisible to someone unaccustomed to her micro-expressions. At one point in time Rupert was an expert in them, the definition of a raised brow or pursed lips memorized like the back of his own hand. This look is new, unfamiliar to his tired eyes, but he doesn’t care to learn the meaning. He has a whole new person he wants to learn, a collection of tiny Taggie-isms hoarded like jewels.
He almost doesn’t notice Malise walk by, thick book on World War Two in hand as if he didn’t witness it live on the BBC. Pretentious fuck, he thinks, looking around his old coach as if Taggie and Tab will turn a corner and save him from the duty of small talk. They don’t, leaving him to flounder through their usual topics (weather, horses, and dogs) for a solid fifteen minutes.
When they do come down the stairs, they are hand in hand and giggling like mad. He wants to photograph it, capture them in this moment and show it to everyone he encounters. My girls, he would crow, chest puffing with pride as they complimented the smiling faces, the glowing aura around them. He can picture the exact scene repeated year after year, Christmas morning and birthday parties celebrated with twin grins and sweet laughter. A new bauble around Taggie’s wrist catches his eye, tiny beads strung together in a pattern of purple and blue. A sister sits on his daughter’s hand, pink and red with a dangling little charm. He can’t help but grin, eyebrows raised when Taggie catches his eye.
“Taggie and I are best friends now,” Tab announces, pushing past Malise to stand beside Marcus. “Dollop loves her, he told me so. And I made us bracelets!”
She shakes her wrist for the gathered group, imagining a captive audience rather than her reluctant, somewhat misshapen family watching and biting their tongues. Helen in particular looks like she swallowed a frog, face pale as she processes this development. “How lovely, Tabitha. Go upstairs and get ready for your bath, please.”
This, of course, triggers a meltdown, a flushed red face and sobs bubbling out of her mouth as she insists she wants to stay with Daddy and Taggie. A silent showdown begins, Helen stonily staring at Rupert to resolve this, eyes narrowed as if it is his fault. He rubs a hand over her back, sobs muffled into his sweater as he shushes her quietly. “Tabby, you have to go to bed and get ready for school tomorrow. You know the rules.”
It’s terribly unfair, he thinks, to try and force a child to understand the intricacies of custody agreements. But this was how he and Helen had agreed to explain it, a series of rules that needed to be followed. Logical, without emotion. Marcus responded well to it, but his Tabby was prone to fight tooth and nail when she was even the slightest bit upset.
A second hand joins his, soothing circles pressed into Tabitha’s back. “Didn’t you tell me Malise was going to have you practice with an oxer this week?”
Taggie’s words cast some kind of spell, causing Tabitha to snuffle quietly before agreeing. Her sobs quiet, red eyes looking up at Taggie sadly. “But I’ll m-miss daddy,” she whimpers, face still partially buried in his middle.
“I know. But I’m sure your mum will let you call him after you practice, and next time you visit you can show him how well you’ve done, hm?”
“And you too.” Big blue eyes turn up to Taggie, pleading softly. “You’ll watch too, right?”
It’s after much agreement, promises to watch very carefully when Tabitha returns and shows off her new skills, along with vows to visit Biscuit for her and give him at least three kisses on the nose while she is gone, that the children file inside for baths. Lingering hugs given to both Taggie and himself, their little hands waving until they fully disappear from view. He wants to usher her away immediately, pack her into her car and drive until the sour expression on Helen’s face is nothing but a smudge in the rearview mirror. But of course, Taggie continues to surprise him.
“You must be Malise,” she says brightly, smiling in that effervescent way of hers. “Tabitha has told me so much about you, Marcus too. I’m Taggie.”
And he has to laugh, because the man beams back, despite the displeasure painted across his wife’s face. “Taggie! Lovely to meet you, dearie. Rupert’s not shared much, do you want to come in for a cuppa?”
In a rare moment of solidarity, his eyes lock with Helen’s, the unspoken hell no shared between them. “Maybe next time,” he demurs, an arm wrapping gently around Taggie’s shoulders. “I need to get this one home, before the car turns back into a pumpkin.”
A stiff laugh breaks through Helen’s lips, harsh and cold. “Don’t want to break curfew,” she calls, waving them off with a lazy hand. He knows from her tone he will get an earful tomorrow, unfounded claims about underage girls sure to be thrown at him. But it doesn’t matter, not when he is bundling Taggie into his car, her sweet voice mumbling thank you as he buckles her in.
They peel away from the house, his hand back on her thigh, fingers tickling the hem of her skirt. “I don’t actually have to go home, right?” It’s said so softly he almost misses it, something like longing colouring her voice. And he knows what he should say, that they had a lovely day but tomorrow will be longer, harder.
What comes out is much, much worse.
“Of course I’m taking you home. That’s where we live, darling.”
The words instantly cause her cheeks to flush, face pinking as the game starts again. “You don’t have to—that is, earlier, when we—” she trips over each word, nervously biting her lip as she peers at him. It’s an irresistible look, one that has him pulling over, to be safe. By the time he switches gears, parking on the side of the road, her skirt has shimmied up her legs, another few inches of skin bared to him. Groaning, he reaches for her, hand coming to cup her jaw and stroke the soft skin of her cheek.
“We don’t have to keep playing,” he murmurs, mouth pressing soft kisses across her jaw. He works his way up the delicate ridge, delighting in the little sighs that escape her. “You say the word, Tag, we end this. But I think…I think you like to play.” Reaching her ear, he kisses the shell, lets his breath curl over the tender flesh. “Isn’t that right? A treat, for a good girl.”
“I’m good?” Her voice goes high, questioning. It pierces his lungs, the thought of her doubting herself despite everything she handles, the way she takes care of everyone around her. Shifting closer, hand sliding into her hair, he presses his forehead to hers.
“The very best there is, my sweet girl.” A pause, a shuddering breath escaping Taggie’s lips as she leans further into his grip. The smallest nod, the go ahead. “That’s why I made you my wife.”
He can barely restrain himself, fingers itching to slip her skirt up around her waist and take her right there. He almost does, until a car passes them, headlights blaring and pulling them back to reality. A last kiss pressed to her cheek, thumb brushing her bottom lip softly. “And my wife deserves a bed. Let’s go home, angel.”
They make it to Penscombe in record time, the rules of the road a mere suggestion in his mind. He was safe, of course, cognizant of the precious passenger at his side. But the quiet squeals she let out every time he sped up, the laugh that escaped her as he “accidentally” went through a crosswalk without stopping, all of it egged him on until his house came into sight. Then it became serious, real.
One last check in, are you sure whispered into her ear as they made their way up the front steps. A hand on her lower back, just a few centimetres shy of being improper, guiding her into the house. A brief stop to say hello to the dogs, tails wagging as Taggie crouches to give each one a moment of attention. Tongues brush across her cheek, pulling a giggle from her that inexplicably made him jealous.
Then up the stairs, carefully, her fingers tracing over the carved banister with care. It is stunning, the attention to detail she has, the ability to admire the tiny things that often pass others by. Maybe that is what drew Tab towards her, the way she actually listened to his tempest daughter, showed interest in her life rather than feigning it to gain his favour.
She fits in his room perfectly. The soft blue walls frame her beautifully, a vision that puts any Monet or Botticelli to shame. Lip clenched between her teeth, he can tell she is wary, unsure of her place in their back and forth. “I like your, I mean, our room.”
Stepping up behind her, he lets an arm wrap around her waist, hand guiding her head to rest back on his shoulder. A soft embrace, one that lets him touch each soft curve of her. Across her hips, the plane of her stomach trembling under his fingers. “It’s nothing we haven’t done before,” he whispers, low in her ear. Shuddering slightly, Taggie nods, a whimper escaping under her breath that he barely catches. “What was that, darling?”
The hand cupping her neck strokes the soft skin, her heartbeat pulsing under his fingertips. She swallows, a nervous thing that he knows he can train out of her. “W-what if it was, our first time. Well, your wife’s. Would you be gentle?””
“Oh, Tag,” he sighs, holding her closer, knowing her instinct will be to hide. “Of course, of course it will be gentle. C’mere.” Letting her turn in his embrace, her own arms slip around his waist; her head buried in the crook of his neck.
“It’s not the first-first.” Her voice cracks on the confession, sweet and shy, his poor little duck. “I just don’t want you to be disappointed, if I’m not good at it.”
Every so often, Rupert feels the urge to be incredibly violent. In hindsight, it must be where Tabitha gets her vicious streak from, the need to tear down those wronged her. Because in this moment, with Taggie looking up at him wide-eyed and desperate for love, he wants to pull those who hurt her limb from limb. Starting with her parents, the ones who taught her love was earned through labour, hours worked equated to worthiness.
He pets her hair, shushes her gently, a little filly nervous for her first rider. “We’ll go slow,” he coos, soft and low to keep her from spooking. “And so gentle, for my little wife.”
Hands caress her back, slowly pulling the soft knit of her sweater out from where it is tucked into her skirt and pulling it over her head. She shivers so deliciously, goosebumps rising in the wake of his hands roaming over her skin. There’s nothing but her bra under the sweater, the soft flesh of her stomach warm against his wandering fingers. Kneeling the the floor, the creak in his knees muffled by the low moan that escapes her. “Like that, darling?”
Head nodding furiously, Taggie arches further into his touch, the soft grip on her waist allowing him to hold her just where he wants. “Be good,” he murmurs, lips ghosting over the bare skin of her thigh. “I know you will be, my little angel. Such a good wife for me.”
His mouth presses a trail of soft kisses along her thigh, up, up, up until his nose brushes the hem of her skirt. Nipping lightly at her soft skin, he watches with awe as the flesh grows red. The same colour as her cheeks, flushed as he quietly asks can I have you like this? Would that please my wife?
“Yes, yes,” Taggie moans, hands lowering to tug her skirt up. It’s endearingly clumsy, the fervor with which she reveals herself to him. He wants to tell her there is no rush, they can take their time. They have hours, days even, to memorize the map of each other’s bodies. Patience, love is on the tip of his tongue, almost spoken into the frenzied air around them, when he catches his first glimpse of what lies under her skirt.
Baby blue cotton, a tiny bow lining the waistband, covering the sacred ground that no other man has breached. Ralphie doesn’t count, he thinks, the fucking twit unable to properly treasure the jewel that is Taggie O’Hara. She deserved better, for her first time. She deserved adoration, complete and total devotion to her pleasure.
She deserved him.
“Darling,” he gasps, a finger raising to trail over the gusset of her panties. The fabric has darkened slightly, a sure sign of her arousal. A hidden secret, one that only he would discover. “Oh, Tag, look at you.”
The gentlest press to the fabric rewards him twofold. First, a quiet squelch, the thin cotton giving way to the pooled wetness underneath. His mouth waters at the thought of it: how long had she been wet, squirming in her seat because of it?
The second is a short, sharp whimper, paired with Taggie’s hips thrusting towards the pad of his finger. “Please,” she sighs, head tipped back slightly. “I want—“
Those are the magic words, all he needed to hear to spur him into action. Fingers shoving into the sides of her panties, he yanks them down her legs, baring her to him. “Fuck,” he curses, head dipping to rest on her thigh. He can smell her, musky yet sweet, the scent forever burnt into his memories. It would be hard to forget her, forget this.
One last whisper of please drops from her lips, pleading and needy. It’s all he needs to hear before he dives in to her, a hot kiss pressed to her clit as it peeked through her folds and the soft curls that covered her. The action has her squealing, hips rocking forward towards his mouth. “Give it to me,” Rupert grunts, mouth exploring this untouched treasure. “Don’t hold back, angel, give it to me.”
Slowly, he takes her apart, teasing licks paired with long sucking kisses. No part of her is left untouched, his hands wedging her legs apart so that he can dive into her with abandon. It is heaven, a holy communion that he isn’t sure he has truly earned. The devil to her angel, he takes and takes, every sigh spurring him forward. He should go slower, he thinks, lay her down on the bed and treat her to gentle strokes of his tongue until she shudders apart underneath him.
But then her hand slides into his hair, nails scraping his scalp and pulling on his curls. And he knows she doesn’t want gentle, she needs more than feather soft pleasure. Pushing his jaw further against her, he gives her everything he has, her body responding to the natural rhythm he sets.
“Please, Rupert, pleasepleaseplease ‘m close,” she moans above him, the hand in his hair tightening with every word. He wants to get her there, needs to have her reach that peak. Needs to be the first to get her there, to erase the memory of that awful boy and Seb. His name on her lips, now and forever.
“Who is making you feel like this,” he mutters against her, delighted as she lets out a little sob at his words. “Hm? Who makes you feel good?”
“You,” Taggie keens, her free hand coming to clutch his shoulder. “O-only you.”
“That’s right,” Rupert murmurs, grinning against the sweat soaked skin of her thigh. “I do. Who makes you come, darling?”
It’s unfair, he knows, to ask questions when she’s so close to the brink. The signs are all there: the clench of her stomach, the moans that pour from her lips, the fingernails that dig into the muscle of his shoulder. He hopes she leaves bruises, half-moons that he can wear as a badge of honour. Something semi-permanent, a reminder that she was there, that this really happened.
Sliding a finger into her, the soft and wet clutch of her body causing him to choke with delight, he almost misses her response. “My h-husband,” Taggie chokes, body going taut at his ministrations. “R-rupert, husband, please.”
His mind reels at her words, husband had never sounded so sweet. It was a noose when Helen said it, growing tighter with each year they remained together. With Taggie it is freedom, it is acknowledging the aching hole in his chest that could only be filled by the sight of her smile, the softness of her voice when she told him that he’s a winner.
Of course he is, he thinks, mouthing at her clit and sucking until a warbling cry breaks from her lips. She’s so close, right at the brink of breaking apart on his mouth and fingers, when he gives her one last offering, his heart fully in her hands. “Gotta make my wife come,” he says with a grin, his mouth dripping with the taste of her. “So that I can put a baby in her.”
Taggie shatters around him, gripping him tightly as pleasure rolls through her. It’s stunning, the most gorgeous thing he has ever seen. He strokes her thigh, hand soft on the trembling muscle, pressing a gentle kiss there when she starts to pet his hair. He can see tears glimmering in her eyes, a knot forming in his gut at the sight. “Was that too much, darling? Do you need a minute?”
“I need to be in your bed,” she says dryly, panting slightly. “And maybe some water, before round two.”
Hours later, he has her on his bed, rehydrated and squirming underneath him.
Slipping his hand under her belly he easily finds her clit, slippery and hot under his fingers. He drags each finger across her clit slowly, letting the callouses linger on her delicate skin and smear her slick across each digit.
When his ring finger reaches her clit, the warm band of his ring catches on the swollen bud. She mewls in response and presses her face into his pillow. Pausing, he observed her reaction, kittenish whines escaping as his hips continued to rock into her.
“Did you like that, angel?” He nudges his nose against the shell of her ear, whispering gently. “Felt good, huh?”
Hiccuping, she turned her head to the side, looking up at him with doe-wide eyes. “Uh-huh,” she whined, hips pressing back into his. “More?”
Slipping his ring around so that the signet is aligned with his palm, he coos at her sweetly. “You can have more, of course you can, how does this feel?”
He drags the signet against her sensitive flesh, listening with delight as her breath hitches when it passes over her clit. Pressing down, he circles his finger slowly, building a rhythm that has her hips fucking back into him.
“Ohmygod,” she breathes, keening as he switches the movement to side-to-side swipes. “It’s so. I can’t–”
Chuckling lowly, he pushes his hips up into her. “You can and you will. My little wife always comes, Taggie.”
It won’t take much, the telltale tremors of her pussy already sucking him in deep. She tries to turn away, to bury her face in the goose down pillow she carefully arranged in his bed, but he stops her, hand collared around her neck. She’s so delicate, a little duck caught in his trap. His thumb is just within reach of her pulse point, stroking it in time with the ring on her clit.
Her back arches, her hips pushing away from his hand as the pleasure heightens. That won’t do, he thinks, forcing more of his body weight onto her so that she can’t escape. The action has her crying out, no space to move between his hand and his back.
“You can take it, Taggie,” he hears himself snarl, lost in the sensation of her wiggling underneath him. “Just one little orgasm. That’s not too much for a husband to ask for, is it?”
He can feel his ring slipping down his finger, the slick from her cunt removing any friction he previously had. Wiping his hand on the sheets below them, he speeds up his movements, listening to the symphony of wet sounds from his fingers mixing with her cries.
“Please please please,” she begs, words coming out warbled as if she can’t quite find the shape of them around her moans. “I’m almost–it’s so close.”
“Yeah?” He grunts in her ear, hips picking up speed again as he feels his own orgasm start to draw near. The hand around her neck shifts, thumb swiping a tear from her cheek. Before he can process it she’s mouthing at his hand, head wiggling until she gets the tip of his thumb in her mouth. “Oh baby, you just needed something to suck on. There you go, good girl.” The rest of his fingers remain splayed across her neck, feeling the movement of her throat as she suckles on his thumb.
Her hips start fucking back against his in earnest, a tell-tale sign that her orgasm is on the brink. She’s just so desperate for it, his sweet girl, whining and whimpering even with her mouth full. He pulls his thumb back, his other fingers squeezing softly as his ring worries at her clit.
Whatever she wants to say is garbled, choking on her words as her orgasm hits. Her pussy clenches around him hard, back bowing with the limited space he has left her. It’s stunning to watch, making Rupert wish he had mirrors hung along the walls to see it from all angles.
His hand doesn’t let up, rubbing harshly against her clit until she tumbles over the edge again. “Rupert, Rupert,” she pants, little sobs escaping as the pleasure overwhelms her. “Please, please, please husband.”
Her words have him groaning, hand now steady across her belly as he fucks into her. They’ve been at this for hours, the bed linens stained with the smell of sex. He has half a mind to keep them on his bed forever, until the scent of her fades. Something to keep him company when she goes back to the Priory, the spell of the day broken.
“That’s right, I’m your husband,” he coos, teeth nipping at the soft skin of her neck. “Gonna leave my mark, so everyone knows who you belong to.”
“You’re mine,” she mewls lightly, a third, smaller orgasm rippling through her. Collapsing onto the bed, Taggie keeps her hips raised, moans escaping each time he thrusts in. “And ‘m yours.”
Hearing the words straight from her lips, mine and yours intertwined like a promise, has him coming. Rupert of a year ago would laugh, that the idea of fidelity would make him so soft, but he doesn’t care.
Beneath him, Taggie sighs happily, reaching for his hand and twining their fingers together. “This is nice, isn’t it,” she murmurs, eyes closed as she rests her head on the bed. Wanting to make her as comfortable as possible, he slides his free arm onto the bed, nudging at her until she lifts her head and uses his arm as a pillow. “I could stay here forever.”
He wants her to. Wants her clothes in his closet, wants flour scattered across the kitchen counter. He can picture a bed for Gertrude in the corner of his room, another lead hung in the mudroom. It was all trite nonsense, the kind of sap that he was sure Bas or Billy would talk him out of. But with Taggie curled in his arms, he had never been happier and the concept of wife seemed like a possibility, rather than a punishment.
Three months later, Tabitha waves down a waitress at the diner. It’s become a tradition, on weekends when he has the kids. Sundays are for lunch and a movie, usually at the roadside diner they had stopped at with Taggie. Occasionally they venture to new restaurants, little bistros in Circencester or hole in the wall chip shops in Tetbury, but the little burger joint just outside of Gloucester is their favourite.
This time, Marcus is wedged beside Taggie, their heads lowered over a copy of A Wrinkle in Time. It leaves Tabitha beside him, a feline grin curling across her face.
“What are you up to, Tabby Cat,” he asks quietly, eyes lingering across the table. The girl simply shrugs, grin spreading even wider as the waitress approaches their table.
“Can I get you something, dear?” Flipping her notepad open, the waitress gives the group a smile. She looks familiar, but he can’t place her. Maybe a past conquest, from years ago?
“Do you remember us?” Tabitha demands, sitting tall on the bench seat. “We were here three months ago.”
Oh lord. She’s that waitress, the one who had referred to them as a father and his three beautiful children. He should intervene, apologize in advance for whatever may come spewing from his daughter’s mouth, but Taggie just shakes her head with a smile.
“Of course,” the woman says, smile still pasted on. “Are you having a nice afternoon?”
Smiling sweetly, Tabitha cocks her head to the side. “Very nice. But can you please bring us a ginger ale? Mummy isn’t feeling well.” A beat passes, Rupert’s breath catching in his chest. Taggie would have told him she was feeling sick, wouldn’t she?
“Don’t worry,” his daughter says, her trap set, canine teeth bared. “She’s not contagious. It’s just the baby, making her throw up.”
He feels his face drain of colour, eyes darting to Taggie. Taggie, who smiles softly at him, an arm around Marcus. Taggie, his angel, who has brought him more joy in the past three months than he had experienced in the three decades prior. His jaw has certainly dropped as he stares at her, waiting for some sort of confirmation.
“Surprise,” she murmurs, face flushing softly. “It wasn’t the flu.”
Joy crashes through him, something incandescent and overwhelming. He wants to cry, wants to shout, wants to take Taggie in his arms and kiss her senseless. Instead, he turns to the waitress, ignoring the pooling of tears in his eyes. "Everyone's meals are on me," he says, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. Handing over the card, he can't help but grin. "We're having a baby. Milkshakes for everyone!"
"Rupert," Taggie laughs, her own eyes growing glassy. "D-don't be ridiculous, you don't need to do that."
"Yes, yes I do," he crows, pulling Tab into a tight hug. "God, Tag, we're having a baby."
They spend the entire lunch talking about how they found out, Tabitha crowing proudly that she had been the first to know. "I found Taggie throwing up," the girl says with a grin, swirling her straw through the strawberry milkshake in front of her. "Did you know the test goes in pee?"
Marcus grimaces at that, but quietly mentions how excited he is. It makes Taggie cry again, wiping her eyes and mumbling that her emotions are all over the place. "I'm happy that you are happy," she tells the boy, pressing a soft kiss to his head.
It's perfect, the perfect day. The only thing that would improve it would be the drive home, where he planned to pull over and drop to one knee.
Tabitha was not the only Campbell-Black to pull off a surprise, after all.