I pressed my lips together, shocked at his sharing, saddened by what he was sharing and unsure what to say or do.

Mickey wasn’t unsure. He continued sharing.

“I’m also tellin’ you that because Aisling loves to bake, to be with her family, to take care of us in a lotta ways. But not when she’s next to a woman who’s got a wineglass soldered to her hand who’s slurrin’ her words and droppin’ the flour and forgettin’ how much sugar she put in.”

Oh God.

Poor Aisling.

“Right,” I said softly. It was lame, far from enough, didn’t cover a smidgeon of what I felt or wished I had it in me to say, but it was the only thing I could force out.

Mickey kept going.

“It sucks for me, but I’m strict ’cause she’s not. Somewhere deep, she knows she’s gotta make shit up to them and she does it by lettin’ ’em get away with a load of shit that she shouldn’t.”

That struck close to the bone but obviously I said nothing, which was a good call because Mickey still wasn’t done.

“It also sucks that I gotta lean on the village with my kids,” he continued and his blue eyes grew intent. “And you’re in that village, darlin’, right across the street. It doesn’t take much with my Ash. She’s the best girl there is and not just because she’s fourteen and smart enough to know the simple things in life can bring the most joy. That means she dug slappin’ frosting on some cupcakes with you, even if she spent ’bout fifteen minutes doin’ it. She’ll also dig helpin’ you out tomorrow. And I’ll say now, I appreciate you lettin’ her.”

“I…” I stopped speaking because I was worried I’d start weeping. I pulled in a deep breath, controlled the urge and blurted, “I’m across the street for her or Cillian anytime you or they need me.”

Now, why did I do that?

Why?

They were Mickey’s and would come with Mickey. I couldn’t exactly avoid him and befriend his children at the same time.

Still, I knew I was going to and in doing so probably fail spectacularly at the avoiding Mickey part.

This gave me the feeling I was in trouble and with all the other feelings I was burying, that was really not good.

He reached out and touched his finger in a whisper against the back of my hand. That fleeting touch raced a tingle up my arm, over my shoulder and down my chest, right to two specific targets.

I stood still and let it, liking it—no, loving it—at the same time stunned by it as I’d never experienced anything like it my entire life.

And through this profound experience, Mickey made it more profound by saying softly, “Thanks.”

My voice was low and had a husk that I hoped he put down to emotion for his children and not the fact that he could touch the back of my hand for less than half a second and it had the power to make my nipples get hard when I replied, “Don’t mention it.”