“Is Mommy asleep? I’m hungry.” Her hair is up in a loose messy bun just like her mother wears, and she’s half asleep. She also doesn’t appear to be at all concerned I’m in her mom’s room.
“She is,” I whisper, grabbing my shirt off the floor and throwing it on since Quinn never put it back on last night. “How about we let her sleep in, and I’ll take you downstairs to get breakfast?”
“Okay.” A smile tugs at her lips. “Can we bring her back food?”
“Of course. Go get dressed.”
Once Kinsley is dressed, and I leave Quinn a note letting her know where we are, we head downstairs to eat. My cousin Kiara and her husband, Kevin, are walking around and talking to the guests. When they spot us, they come over to say hi.
“And who is this little girl?” Kevin asks to Kinsley, who I notice is hiding slightly behind me.
“This is Kinsley; Kinsley, this is my cousin’s husband, Kevin.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says. Kinsley smiles shyly, but remains quiet. “The food is along that back wall. Take as much as you’d like and grab any open table.”
“Sounds good, man. Thanks.” I clasp him on the shoulder then head over to the buffet with Kinsley. “Can you make your own plate or do you want me to make one for you?”
“I can do it.” She rolls her eyes. I hand her a plate, and she goes to town piling an assortment of foods onto her plate. Once there’s no sign of a plate left, we find a table and start to eat.
“What are you looking forward to doing the most?” I ask her to make conversation.
She shoves a bite-size waffle into her mouth, and once she’s swallowed, says, “Finding a pumpkin and decorating it. I hope there’s a hay maze too! I saw one on a show and it looks fun. I also want to get my face painted.”
I take a bite of my fruit-filled pastry and groan at how delicious it tastes. The peaches are fresh and sweet, and the pastry is flaky and baked to perfection. Kiara has always been an exceptional baker. When she lived in Ireland, she owned a small bakery that did very well. As I’m taking another bite, I look over at Kinsley, who is about to take a bite of the same pastry I’m eating. I don’t even know how I remember, but the next thing I know I’m screaming for her to put the food down. She drops the pastry onto her plate, but she’s already taken a bite.
“Shit!” I yell, not caring that I’m causing a scene. “Spit it out.” I’m out of my chair and over to her with a napkin, trying to wipe the food out of her mouth. Kinsley is now in tears, and I’m terrified she’s having an allergic reaction.
“Someone call nine-one-one,” I yell.
“Lachlan!” I look over and see Quinn running over to us. “What’s wrong?” she asks me. Then to Kinsley, she says, “Why are you crying?”
“She ate a pastry. It has peaches in it. I’m trying to get it out of her mouth.” My heart is pounding so hard, it feels like it’s about to thump right out of my chest. Am I having a heart attack?
“What’s wrong?” Kiara comes over and asks.
“Kinsley is allergic to fruit,” I tell her, “and she took a bite of the pastry. It has fruit in it. Call nine-one-one. She can die.”
I glance around, confused as to why everyone is remaining so calm when there’s a little girl whose throat could be closing right now.
“Lachlan, it’s okay,” Quinn says. “She’s okay.”
When I look back over to Kinsley, she still has tears in her eyes, but she’s not hyperventilating or having trouble breathing. “She was crying,” I point out.
“Because you scared me,” Kinsley says with her brows knitted together. “I didn’t know it had fruit in it,” she tells her mom.
“It’s baked,” Quinn says, picking up the fruit I removed from Kinsley’s mouth. “She’s only allergic to raw fruits.”
“Oh,” I breathe, suddenly feeling really damn stupid because I knew that. “I-I’m sorry. I…” I look over to Kinsley. “I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you, Mini-Q.” The ache in my chest is still there in full force. If something would’ve happened to Kinsley, I don’t think I would survive it. I’ve already grown to love that little girl as if she’s my own.
Quinn takes my hands in hers and leans on her tiptoes to give me a soft kiss. “You have nothing to be sorry about,” she murmurs against my lips. “Thank you.”
“For what?” I just caused her daughter to cry and demanded people call for help for no reason.
“For caring about my daughter enough to remember about her allergy. When I walked in and saw how scared you were…” A single tear slides down her face. “I was terrified something happened to my daughter. But there you were, taking charge, doing exactly what I would’ve been doing. Thank you.”