Dandelion Dreams (The Alphabet Sweethearts #4)

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Emma

T here's something magical about watching your child discover their father's world. I cradle my coffee—still fixed exactly how I like it, because Andrew remembers—and observe them from my corner table at Novel Sips. Charlie sits cross-legged on the floor beside Andrew, both of them bent over a massive book about space dragons, their dark heads nearly touching.

"But how do they breathe fire in space?" Charlie asks, pointing at something on the page. "There's no air up there."

"Well..." Andrew pushes his glasses up, treating the question with the same serious consideration he gives to ordering new inventory. "Maybe space dragons have special magic that works differently than Earth dragons."

Charlie considers this, his face scrunched in concentration—exactly like his father's expression when solving a difficult problem. "Could they breathe stardust instead?"

"That's actually quite brilliant." Andrew's smile transforms his whole face, softening the careful lines I've noticed around his eyes. "Stardust breathing dragons. I like that."

My heart does a familiar flip as Charlie beams under his father's praise. Five days I've been doing this—bringing my son to Novel Sips, watching them discover each other through stories and shared imagination. Five days of remembering why I fell in love with Andrew Carter in the first place.

"I'm going to draw it!" Charlie announces, scrambling up. "Can I use the special paper by the art books?"

"Of course." Andrew straightens, his knee cracking slightly. "You know where everything is."

As Charlie races off to his favorite corner, Andrew rises and, after a moment's hesitation, joins me at my table. "He's incredible," he says quietly, watching our son carefully select his colored pencils.

"He is." I wrap my hands around my coffee mug, trying to ignore how Andrew's presence makes the air feel charged. “He asked if you are his father.”

“What did you say?” Andrew asked.

“That you are.” I hold my breath. I hope that’s okay with you.”

“Of course.” HIs eyes follow our son.

"You're so good with him."

"It's easy." He turns to me, and I catch a flash of vulnerability in his eyes. "He makes it easy."

"Not everyone would think so. Taking on a four-year-old's endless questions about dragon physics..."

"Says the woman who once spent three hours explaining to me why the sunset needed to be purple in your painting." His tone is gently teasing, and something in my chest aches at the familiarity.

"That was different. I was making art."

"And Charlie isn't?" He gestures to where our son is now deeply focused on his drawing, tongue stuck out in concentration. "Look at him, Emma. He's got your creativity, your way of seeing magic in everything."

"He has your focus," I counter softly. "Your ability to lose yourself completely in something you love."

Andrew's knee bumps mine under the table as he shifts, and neither of us moves away. The point of contact sends warmth spreading through me, dangerous and familiar.

"I've been thinking," he says, pushing up his glasses. "About what you said. About trying to find me."

My heart stutters. "Andrew?—"

"No, let me finish." His voice is gentle but firm. "I was shocked, angry. I still am, a little. But watching Charlie these past few days, seeing how you've raised him..." He pauses, collecting his thoughts. "You did a good job, Emma. With our son."

Tears prick at my eyes. "I tried. But he deserved to have you too."

"We can't change that." His knee presses more firmly against mine. "But we can make it better now. If you want."

"If I want?" A laugh bubbles up, slightly watery. "Andrew Carter, when have I ever not wanted you in my life?"

His eyes darken at that, and the air between us grows thick with unspoken things. With memories of stolen kisses between library shelves, of dreams whispered in the dark, of promises neither of us quite knew how to keep.

"Mama! Dad! Look what I made!"

We both start at Charlie's voice—at what he called Andrew. Our eyes meet, shocked, as Charlie runs over with his drawing held high.

"Charlie, honey," I begin gently, "maybe we should?—"

"It's okay," Andrew cuts in, his voice rough with emotion. He holds out his hand for the drawing. "Show me these space dragons, buddy."

As Charlie launches into an elaborate explanation of stardust-breathing dragons and their stellar adventures, I watch Andrew's face. Watch how he blinks rapidly behind his glasses, how his hand trembles slightly as he points out details in the drawing, how his smile grows more certain with each passing moment.

His knee is still pressed against mine, warm and solid and real. A bridge between what was lost and what might still be found.

I take a sip of my cooling coffee, hiding my own smile as Charlie climbs into Andrew's lap to better explain the dragon's cosmic navigation system. Some things, it seems, don't need to be taught. Some connections forge themselves, as natural as breathing stardust in space.

As inevitable as falling in love with Andrew Carter. Again.

Andrew sits cross-legged on the checkered blanket I've spread beneath an old oak tree in Memorial Park. Charlie's delighted shrieks mix with other children's laughter from the playground, where he's made fast friends with a girl in sparkly butterfly wings.

"He's fearless," he observes, watching Charlie scale the climbing dome. "Must get that from you."

I snort softly. "Says the man who stood up to the whole town council when they wanted to tear down the old theater, because you believed it could be something special."

"That took courage." He stretches out beside me, propped on one elbow. "Mrs. Henderson didn't speak to me for weeks."

"Until she realized you'd actually improved everything."

His smile is soft, touched with memory. "You helped, if I recall. Spent three weekends sorting reference books."

"Only because you bribed me with coffee and promised to pose for that portrait series."

"Ah yes, your 'People in Their Natural Habitats' collection. Did I ever look natural surrounded by all those books?"

"You looked perfect." The words slip out before I can catch them. I pluck at a loose thread on the blanket, avoiding his eyes. "I still have those sketches, actually."

“Speaking of which, are you still painting? Charlie mentioned something about art classes?" Andrew asks.

"Of course. Different stuff now. Children's art, mostly." I smile, watching Charlie show another child how to properly climb the dome. "I've been teaching part-time at the community center in the city, helping kids explore their creativity. And illustrating some simple stories for my students."

"That suits you." There's warmth in his voice that makes me glance over. "You always had a gift for helping people see the magic in things."

"The kids make it easy. Their imaginations are so pure, so unlimited." I gesture toward Charlie. "Like his space dragons. They see possibilities everywhere."

"Just like you used to. Still do, I think."

The silence stretches between us, heavy with implication. Charlie's voice carries across the park as he introduces himself to another child, fearless in his friendliness.

"I thought about you," I say finally, still watching our son. "Every time he did something that reminded me of you. When he organized his picture books by size. When he insisted on reading three bedtime stories instead of one. When he..." I swallow hard. "When he pushed up his imaginary glasses while thinking, just like you do."

"Emma." His voice is rough.

"I like it here," I continue, the words tumbling out. "Being back in Juniper Falls. Watching Charlie bloom in this town. Seeing you with him." I risk a glance at Andrew. "Seeing you."

He's closer than I realized, his hazel eyes intense behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "I thought about you too," he admits quietly. "Every time someone ordered their coffee exactly like you do. Every time I found paint brushes in the art section. Every time?—"

Charlie's happy shriek interrupts us. We both look over automatically, parent instincts kicking in, but he's just showing his new friend how high he can swing.

When I turn back, Andrew's hand is covering mine on the blanket. His thumb traces small circles on my skin, sending shivers up my arm.

"I was so angry," he whispers. "For so long after you left. But watching you with him, seeing how you've loved him, raised him..." He lifts his free hand to my face, fingers trembling slightly as they brush my cheek. "I can't be angry anymore, Emma."

My heart thunders in my chest. "Andrew?—"

He leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away. I don't. His lips meet mine with exquisite gentleness, a whisper of contact that sends electricity racing through my veins. I lift my hand to his chest, feeling his heart pounding as fast as mine.

The kiss deepens, five years of longing and regret and love pouring into this one perfect moment. His hand slides into my hair, and I taste coffee and memories and possibility?—

"Mama! Dad! Watch this!"

We break apart, both breathing hard. Andrew's glasses are slightly crooked, and I resist the urge to straighten them. Charlie waves frantically from the top of the slide, completely unaware of what he's interrupted.

"I'm watching, buddy!" Andrew calls back, his voice only slightly unsteady. "Show us what you've got!"

As Charlie demonstrates his newest sliding technique, Andrew's hand finds mine again on the blanket. He laces our fingers together, and I feel the slight tremor in his grip.

"Emma," he starts, then stops, searching for words.

"I know," I whisper, squeezing his hand. "Me too."

Charlie races over suddenly, throwing himself between us on the blanket. "Can we get ice cream? Please? My new friend Sarah says the shop down there—" he points toward Main Street "—has dragon sprinkles!"

"Dragon sprinkles?" Andrew's eyebrows lift. "That sounds like something we need to investigate."

Charlie beams, bouncing up and starting to gather his toys. As we pack up the blanket, Andrew's hand brushes my lower back—brief, deliberate, promising. My skin tingles at the contact.

"Ice cream?" Charlie pleads, already tugging us toward Main Street.

I meet Andrew's eyes over our son's head, seeing my own mix of hope and uncertainty reflected there. "Ice cream," I agree softly, "sounds perfect."

Just like the lingering taste of coffee and possibilities on my lips.