Page 64 of His Daughter

"She had her last bottle at four. There's a fresh one prepped in the fridge — second shelf, labeled. The monitor is on, volume up. If her temperature goes above — "

"Above 100.4, call Dr. Kaplan and then you." Dominique took Lena from my arms with the practiced ease of a woman who'd heard this speech before. "I've got it, Ms. Calloway."

"And the — "

"Onesies in the second drawer. Diapers in the cabinet. Chamomile wash in the basket by the tub." She settled Lena on her shoulder.

I stood there. My arms were empty. Lena was looking at me over Dominique's shoulder, her blue eyes wide, her fist reaching toward me.

"One more minute." I took her back, held her against my chest, and kissed her forehead. "Be good, sweetheart. I'll be back before you know it."

She grabbed my collar. I uncurled her fingers gently, kissed each one, and handed her back.

Declan appeared in the nursery doorway. He crossed to Dominique and leaned down to Lena. He kissed the top of her head. "Be good for them." He straightened. His gaze shifted for a moment when he saw the red silk dress I wore. He shook his head and smiled. "Ready?"

"Yes."

Declan drove. The city scrolled past my window. He turned away from Midtown, away from the gleaming towers and the restaurants with unlisted numbers.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

He pulled up in front of a bookstore. It was small. The lights were on. A cat sat on a stack of books in the window, watching us with professional indifference.

I looked at him.

He said nothing. He got out, came around, and opened my door.

I stepped onto the sidewalk. The bookstore's front window glowed warm against the dark street. Through the glass, I could see crooked shelves, stacked tables, and a reading nook in the back with a worn armchair.

“Declan, why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve come in my best sweats.”

He leaned in to kiss my temple. “What can I say? I love it when you dress up.”

I pushed the door open. A bell chimed. The smell of old paper and wood polish hit me first. The shelves were packed and disorganized. The cat from the window had moved to a stool near the register and was licking its paw.

I was already moving past the front table, past the nonfiction wall, and into the fiction section where the romance shelves were. I ran my finger along the spines and pulled one off the shelf. I read the back cover, put it in my other hand, and pulled another. Then a third — a slow burn with a single dad on the cover, which was either ironic or perfect, and I wasn't going to think about which.

Declan was behind me, leaning against the end of the shelf with his arms crossed.

"You're staring," I said, without looking up from the back cover.

"You're glowing." He pushed off the shelf, walked to the register, and pulled out his wallet. I looked up.

“Add it to my tab." He set his card on the counter.

The woman at the register — gray-haired, bifocals, the look of someone who had opinions about hardcovers versus paperbacks — glanced between us with a small smile.

I put six books on the counter. She rang them up. He signed. I carried the bag. We walked.

The street was quiet, string lights overhead, our footsteps the only sound. He reached for the bag. I pulled it away.

"I'm carrying my own books."

He laughed. "So independent, Calloway. I was reaching for your hand."

I looked at him. He raised his eyebrows. I shifted the bag to my other hand and gave him the free one. His fingers laced through mine.