Page 20 of Promise

Hastily, I close the door, shutting out the memory and the sight of him.

Damn Dart Rivers for still making my body tingle and my thoughts race.

Damn those wild, whiskey eyes and the curl of his lips like he can read my mind, my memories.

Like he was thinking about the exact same one I was and wanted to re-enact it.

With me.

7

[Trinity]

My mother’s advice had been to nap when Mirabelle napped. Contact naps, especially, were vital in helping build a bond between mother and child. With Mirabelle in my arms, I lean into the corner of the couch, legs outstretched toward the opposite end, and stamp a kiss against her sweet head. Her awake time hadn’t been more than an hour before she was dozing again.

Snuggling her in my arms, I stare down at her, cataloging all her features. Her round cheeks, skin softer than anything I’ve ever felt. Her eyes closed, barely-there eyelashes. The faint hint of an angel kiss between her tiny brows. Her lips move in that instinctual motion, sucking even in her dreams. Her nose is like a button.

Gently, I swipe down the little nub, then stroke over her head. The soft spot is still present beneath the downy dust of hair. Her hands are tucked beneath her chin. Her toes are covered in the onesie pajamas she wears. I’ve counted them endlessly. Ten fingers. Ten toes.

I lean forward and inhale her sweet, milky, baby scent.

My throat clogs with emotion. The reality of being her mother hasn’t set in yet. I’m still afraid she could be taken away at any minute. Fear settles next to awe, and the love I already feel for her.

Love, that strange desire to keep her close. Adore her. Protect her.

The emotions are confusing and wonderful.

What had me additionally puzzled, though, was the sudden reappearance of Dart. In Rogue River. In my house.

What was he doing here? Why did he suddenly care about the roof? How could his eyes express concern for me? After three years, an itch irritated my chest, one I didn’t want to acknowledge. The spot had already scabbed, nearly healed, and I knew better than to claw at the wound again.

Yet, here I sit, my mind lost in memories. The purchase of this house. The endless list of things done to improve it. The money suck. The drain on our finances and our energy, and eventually a source of discontent when there weren’t any babies to fill the three extra bedrooms.

I should have sold the place after Dart left, but I didn’t have the heart. I loved this old house, especially after all the renovations. The new kitchen. The updated bathrooms. The refinished hardwood floors. This was my home, and the one thing I’d been grateful for in our divorce was Dart allowing me to keep it.

He gave it to me.

Over time, I made the rooms more my own. The Georgia O’Keeffe poster in the front hallway. The velvety soft, pink couch I lounge on. Throw pillows on my bed with ruffles on the edges. Little touches. Feminine pinches that made this house more mine than ours.

He had no right to say the roof still belonged to him.

The soft swirl of the lock on the front door interrupts my thoughts and brings Dart into the entryway, like my irritation conjured him to appear. He tiptoes down the hallway with two grocery sacks in one hand.

“What are you doing?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

He jolts, not having noticed me.

“Hey,” he whispers, his gaze falling to Mirabelle on my chest.

I swing my legs off the couch and slowly attempt to stand, which prompts Dart to rush forward, setting the grocery bags on the low table and extending his hands to assist me.

“I’m good,” I snap, not wanting his help, his touch.

The crackling sensation that rippled down my arm last night reminded me of how long it’s been since someone else has touched me, and how it shouldn’t be him who ignites such a flare on my flesh.

He stills his hands, suspended in the air. His eyes are contrite. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I wasn’t sleeping anyway,” I admit, a sigh of exhaustion follows. “I should probably set her down and make myself something to eat.”