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When I woke the next morning, it was to find the bed empty, but a note on Quaid’s side of the bed saying, “I’ll meet you at the gas station.”
I smiled, feeling a sense of peace at his words.
I hadn’t been to the gas station alone since the day that I’d been hurt.
Then again, I had a feeling I never would again.
Even now, three years later, I couldn’t scrounge up the courage to go on my own. And Quaid couldn’t let loose enough to allow me to do it myself.
It wasn’t the most convenient of things for us to do—him always pumping my gas—but it worked for us. It made him feel better, and it made me feel safe.
It was a win-win situation in my book.
A lot of things had changed since the worst had happened to me, but one thing was still very much the same.
I loved Quaid, and he cherished the ground I walked on.
Today was a much-deserved day off.
I had nothing at all planned today but lunch with the Carter women, and a whole bunch of nothing else.
But since I knew he needed gas in his own cruiser and wouldn’t be able to muddle around town without getting it first, I set off getting myself and our son ready to leave the house.
After picking up a coffee for both Quaid and me, and a small cup of whipped cream for our baby boy, Cam, I texted that I was heading toward our favorite gas station on the corner of the road that led to our house.
I waited patiently in my car for my knight in shining armor to arrive.
It took him two minutes before I saw the sleek black of his police cruiser pull up.
Seconds later he was pulling in behind me, and I was staring at Hot Cop as he walked up behind my car, and to the pump.
I rolled my window down as he slipped the nozzle into my gas tank.
“How much for the service, Officer?”
He twisted his face so that his mirrored aviators caught my gaze and said, “You can’t afford me, Calamity.”
I giggled.
“Daddy!”
I glanced in my rearview mirror at my son.
My three-year-old son who acted exactly like the Carter man he was spawned from.
I rolled down Cam’s window so Quaid could see him.
“Hey, buddy,” Quaid greeted our baby boy. Our soon to be eldest child. “I like your shirt.”
I glanced down at the shirt that read ‘Future Police Officer.’
“You can’t wear it,” our three-year-old declared.
Quaid shook his head. “I didn’t ask to wear it.”
“Because you’re too fat,” Cam spoke like Quaid hadn’t said a word.
Quaid shook his head. “I didn’t ask!”
