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Storm went from standing at her crib rail to crawling to sitting. She grew smaller and balder. She was on her belly and reaching. Here she was on her back, her little face solemn. Drinking a bottle and—
“Oh my God.”
“What—?”
The image of Tiffany holding a newborn while standing tucked under the arm of an older man blurred as Cloe’s eyes grew wet and hot.
“Oh.” Trystan came to stand beside her. “Em took that when she arrived to nanny. She sent it to me not long after we got here, so I could get a print made while I was in Port Hardy. It’s framed and on the wall in Storm’s room.”
“Itis?” She was falling apart, struck by grief, but also by the fact that Emma had been that thoughtful. That she had taken the photo and wanted Storm to know who had made her.
Cloe couldn’t see it now. Her vision was nothing but swimming colors.
“Hey. Come on,” Trystan said gently. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Here.” He handed her a tissue.
She blew her nose, but the tears kept seeping from her clenched eyes.
“Cloe, you’re killing me. Come here. You need a hug?”
She nodded and slid off the chair and stepped into the harbor of his strong arms.
He enfolded her and she wrapped her arms around his waist and let all her emotions release. The sadness and loss, the anger and fear, the yearning and frustration, and her deep gratitude that Trystan was being so kind to her when no one had been kind to her in a long while. Not like this. Not as if he really, truly cared that she was hurting.
“You’ll be okay,” he murmured but he let her cry. He rubbed her back and tucked her head beneath his jaw so his throat was against her eyebrow. “It won’t hurt this bad forever.”
It took way too long, but he held her until her wrenching sobs let up. Then she became more aware of him. Of his strength and the soft, damp cotton of his T-shirt beneath her cheek and the way his warm hand roamed her spine and shoulder blades.
Lovely sensations unfurled in her belly. She drew back enough to look up him.
His expression tightened and he reached for the box of tissues, releasing her so she was instantly cold and bereft.
She grabbed several tissues and mopped up, mumbling with embarrassment, “I’m really sorry.”
“No. Cloe—” He took the crumpled tissues and threw them into a waste basket. “This is why I said what I said yesterday. You need a friend right now.”
She swallowed, trying to push the stinging lump out of her throat while nodding with understanding.
“Plus, who wants to kiss this mess, right?” she joked in a very strained voice.
“I’ve kissed worse.” He stood with his hips against the dash, arms folded, ankles crossed. “Your niece can be a real snot monster.”
“Oh my gawd,” she said with an appalled chuckle, burying her face in a fresh handful of tissues.
“But I do,” he said gravely. His heavy hands settled on her shoulders, startling her into jerking her head out of her tissue-filled hands. “I want to kiss this face.”
He cupped her cheeks and pressed his lips to her forehead so briefly, she only knew it happened from the branded sensation that remained there, then he stepped away and nodded to the window.
“Johnny’s coming back.”
Chapter Twelve
Trystan was goingnuts where Cloe was concerned.
He was still stifling a groan of denial that the boys had interrupted them yesterday, when he and Cloe had been kissing in Ocean Falls.
What a kiss. What a fucking kiss. He couldn’t remember ever being that turned on by a simple—complex, consuming—kiss.
Or so eaten by guilt afterward.
