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“Don’t tickle me,” Willow says, sounding completely logical.
My girl is smart. Much like her mama.
Clearing my throat, I lean against the headboard and stare at the art piece, telling the story about watching for Wren every day before school started. How I didn’t know her, but I wanted to, even though she never wanted to give me the time of day. How we were forced to work together on a school project and we slowly got to know each other.
And swiftly fell in love.
“What about the kisses?” Willow stares at the piece with me.
“What about them?”
“You owe her two million.” She remembers that. She remembers pretty much every detail of our story. “How many do you give her?”
“A lot.”
“How many?”
“We’re probably only a quarter of the way in,” I say, and my poor little daughter frowns, confusion etched in her delicate features. “Let’s just say Daddy still owes Mama a lot of kisses.”
The frown disappears, just like that. “I want kisses.”
I give her one on her forehead. Her nose. Each cheek. “All the kisses you could ever want, you deserve.”
“I wanna husband who gives me kisses too.” Her gaze turns dreamy as she stares at the art piece once more.
Over my dead body, is what I want to say, thinking of my own self not too long ago and how completely over the top I was. How badly I wanted Wren and went after her with a dogged determination that still surprises me. I’ve never chased after someone like I chased after Wren.
And look at me now. I got her. I love her. I love our little girl and I love our son. Life is pretty great.
“Someday,” I tell Willow, dropping another kiss on top of her head. “But for now, save your kisses for your mama and daddy. And your brother.”
“Okay, Daddy. I’ll save all my kisses for you.” She tilts her head back to look at me, and for a moment I think she looks older. Wiser than she should. “But someday I’m going to kiss someone else. Like Mama kisses you.”
“Uh, sure.” I swallow hard, hating the thought of her being so grown up. She’s still my baby. My first child. My daughter. “Just … don’t give your kisses away too easily.”
She frowns. “Doesn’t everyone need a kiss?”
I say nothing, unsure of how to explain myself. She’s unreasonable a lot of the time, but she’s still a toddler so it’s expected. She’s also naturally fiery and hotheaded—Wren calls that the Lancaster in her.
She’s right. I can’t deny it.
“Kisses are the best. They’re so pretty.” She turns toward the art, a little sigh escaping her. “I want it.”
“Want what?”
“Kisses.” She turns a toothy grin on me. “Lots of them.”
Shit.
I’m in trouble.
CHAPTER ONE
Willow, Age 18
Labor Day weekend
“Why are we starting back at school so late again?” I’m sitting at the baroque-style vanity table that’s in my cousin Iris’s room, dotting my face with a highlighter stick almost aggressively.
