Page 7 of Come Fly With Me

“You’re not getting a ponytoday,” he amended, just so he could feel the tiniest bit parental.

Katy gave him a look of disgust that told him he wasn’t fooling anybody. So, he tried a different tack. “What did I tell you about wearing that shirt with pink?” He pointed to the shirt he’d worn when he played for Arsenal. One of many she’d stolen from him. And then wore with glitter and tiaras. This was his life now. One day, a professional footballer at the top of his career—the next, stuck in a never-ending pissing contest with a six-year-old.

“This shirt shouldbepink,” the little terrorist replied.

Today’s ensemble consisted of one of his old team shirts worn as a dress over pink Barbie-motif leggings. She’d tied the Arsenal shirt at the waist with a sparkly pink belt, had at least five different necklaces on, several bows randomly placed in her barely combed hair, and had completed her outfit with oversized monster-feet slippers.

He bet David Beckham didn’t have to deal with this crap.

She opened her mouth, no doubt to lecture him on the merits of pink—again—but Flynn held up a hand to stop her. “We’re not getting into what color football strips should be.”

Katy frowned, snapped her mouth shut, took a deep breath then opened it again, ready to start in on her next favorite topic.

“And we aren’t going to talk about why they should have sparkles either.”

Folding her arms, she glared at him. “Sparkles would make it easier to see the players on the pitch.”

For a second, he had a mental image of the England team in white Elvis suits and almost agreed with her. He shook it off. Even as a staunch Scotland supporter, he couldn’t do that to his fellow football players.

“What are you doing up this early anyway?” he asked as he headed up the steps to the house.

The faux innocence of her smile had him stopping in his tracks as all sorts of alarm bells went off in his head.

“I had to feed my guinea pigs,” she said sweetly.

Her statement seemed innocent enough, but experience told him there had to be more to it than that. “And?”

“And I counted them.”

Was this a six-year-old thing? Was she showing off that she could count to four?

“Well done?” he said.

This earned him another ‘are you really that dumb?’ look. “There were seventeen,” she said smugly.

“What the hell?”

“You aren’t allowed to say hell.” She stuck out her hand. “You owe me five pounds.”

“We agreed on fifty pence for every swear word.” His pitiful attempt at cleaning up his language before there were even more kids listening to his every word. And then blackmailing him with them.

She shook her head. “Fifty pence isn’t enough of a detergent for you.”

“You mean deterrent.”

“I mean, you need to give me five pounds, or I’m going to tell Muma you said hell.”

“And I’ll tell her you said it twice.”

“I’ll tell her I said it because I was copying you.”

“Freaking terrorist,” he muttered, his shoulders slumping. “I don’t carry money when I run.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “If you forget to pay me, I’m doubling it.”

“Whatever.” He had bigger issues to deal with than her propensity for blackmail. “What do you mean seventeen guinea pigs? There are four. Can you even count to seventeen?”

The knowing smile on her face grew wider as she held up both hands and started to count. With each number, she lowered a finger. “One, two, three…” Sure enough, she made it to seventeen. Although she had to kick off her slippers and use her toes for the last seven numbers.