Chapter 16 Dani
Dani
By the time afternoon sunlight slanted across the living room, I was almost convinced I had stumbled into an alternate universe.
One where I wasn’t just the weird, goth girlie sneaking out of a hookup’s house at dawn or hiding from awkward run-ins with ex-wives, but rather, someone who might actually be exactly where she was supposed to be.
That was the only explanation for the scene playing out in front of me.
Coach Brooks Bailey-Ward—the man, the myth, and the baseball legend—was sitting cross-legged on the carpet with his massive hands splayed obediently across a towel while his six-year-old daughter painted his nails.
Hot pink with glitter.
“Hold still, Daddy,” Carolina ordered with the seriousness of a brain surgeon. “You’re smudging.”
“Not smudging,” he grumbled, though the twitch in his jaw gave him away. “My hand is falling asleep.”
“You’ve only been sitting there for five minutes,” I teased, dipping a brush into the sky-blue polish I’d claimed for his other hand. “Be glad she didn’t want to do your makeup.”
His gaze slid toward me, heavy-lidded and sharp, but there was no real bite in it. Just warmth, and maybe something else? The kind of look that made my stomach somersault even as my brush trembled over his thumbnail.
Carolina, blissfully unaware, hummed to herself while she finished his pinkie. “You look beautiful,” she declared with a satisfied nod.
Brooks raised a brow at me. “Beautiful, huh?”
“Oh, definitely,” I said, keeping my tone solemn. “The glitter really brings out your eyes.”
He groaned under his breath but didn’t pull away. Instead, he let Carolina grab his hand and blow dramatically on the wet polish. Watching the two of them together, so unguarded, so easy—it did something to me I couldn’t quite name.
For the first time all day, the thought of running didn’t even cross my mind. And the three of us—four, if you counted our baby girl—had had quite a day.
After Brooks had cornered me by the pantry and used his BDE, aka “big dad energy,” to convince me to stay, I had nearly bolted again when I’d realized the state of my clothes.
My leggings and panties were absolutely wrecked after yesterday’s .
. . activities. But that didn’t faze Brooks.
If anything, it inspired him. I was still trying to recover from my mortification when Brooks had wordlessly traded a pair of his sweatpants, the drawstring cinched tight at the waist, for my soiled clothing, which he had immediately tossed into the washing machine with the rest of his laundry.
Now, I would never be able to shake his delicious scent from my body.
The lemon-blueberry pancakes had been next level.
After the first batch, that was, which Brooks had accidentally burned, just like Carolina had predicted.
Afterward, the three of us had piled on his oversized couch, sticky plates balanced on knees, cartoons humming in the background while Carolina filled me in on how to feed her sourdough starter, and I schooled her on why Velma was objectively the best member of the Mystery Inc. team.
From there, it was onto The Great British Baking Show, where I learned quickly that Carolina was as ruthless a judge as Paul Hollywood. Only, she gave out hugs rather than handshakes.
Just like me. We were both huggers.
Through it all, Brooks had just laughed, his arm stretched along the back of the couch, his hand toying with the edge of my shirt—well, his shirt—in a way that felt both casual and deeply intentional. Like he wanted me to know that he was close, but not as close as either of us wanted.
It was the best kind of torture.
And now, with the sun sinking lower and the day winding down, Carolina had decided she was finally old enough to give her dad a manicure.
I was the tiniest bit jealous.
I couldn't remember the last time someone else had painted my nails.
Even back in high school, it had never been like this.
I would have given anything for my mom to sit with me like Brooks was with Carolina.
To let me curl up against her shoulder and feel her arms tight around me while we picked out colors and pretended like everything was okay.
That ache in my chest—the one that never really went away when I thought about what I hadn't had growing up—softened when I let my hand drift down to the curve of my belly. My daughter wasn’t going to feel that emptiness. Not ever.
She was going to know what it felt like to have arms around her, steady and safe. To be chosen, every single day. To laugh in the kitchen while pancakes burned and cuddle on the couch beneath blankets and sticky plates.
She was going to have what I never had, because I was going to give it to her.
I was going to be different. For her.
Carolina clapped and sat back to admire her handiwork. “Perfect.”
Brooks showed off his pink-and-blue glittered fingers. It was hard to believe that those were the same massive fingers that had been inside of me yesterday. And this morning.
“What do you think, kitten?”
I bit back a laugh. “Pink and blue are definitely your colors.”
Carolina crawled across the towel, fishing in her little bag of polish. “Time to do your toes.”
Panic flitted across his face.
“Pass me a green, Carolina,” I said sweetly, leaning back against the couch. He shook his head but sat back, resigned. Smart man.
For a minute, it was all laughter and glitter and the faint squeak of polish brushes against Brooks’s toenails. But while I watched him play along, grumbling and rolling his eyes, yet never once pulling away, I couldn’t help but feel something stir low in my belly.
This wasn’t just a man humoring his daughter. This was the man—the only man—who had shown up for me again and again, even when I hadn’t asked him to. Even when I had tried to push him away. Both times. And now, here he was, letting his daughter paint him like a canvas without a single complaint.
Maybe it was time I showed up for him.
I cleared my throat lightly. “Hey, Carolina?”
“Mm-hmm?” she answered, tongue poking out as she carefully applied a coat of purple glitter to Brooks’s big toe.
“For your birthday party,” I began, watching Brooks’s head lift slightly at my words.
“I was thinking, what do you think about letting each of your friends have their own mini cake to decorate? That way everyone gets to make something special that they can take home, and you can still have your big cake to eat, too?”
Her eyes lit up like the Eiffel Tower. “Mini cakes? Like on The Great British Baking Show?”
“Exactly like that,” I said, smiling.
She squealed, flinging her arms around me in a sticky hug that smelled like acetone and maple syrup. “That’s the best idea ever! Thank you, Dani.”
When I looked up, Brooks’s gaze was already on me, soft and unreadable but full of something that made my pulse stumble.
Carolina bounced on her knees, polish brush still in hand. “Does this mean you’re going to come to my party?”
Her earnest little face nearly undid me.
I blinked, stalling because I hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Um, when is it?”
“The last Saturday of the month,” Brooks answered quickly, his voice low but steady, eyes never leaving mine. It wasn’t just a date on the calendar—it was an open door. An invitation. A sign he wanted me there, too.
Carolina wiggled closer, grabbing my hand with glitter-stained fingers. “Please, say yes.”
That lump rose in my throat again, equal parts nerves and warmth. There it was, laid out as simply as blueberry pancakes—a chance to be part of something bigger than just stolen kisses and a surprise pregnancy.
“Yes,” I said softly, giving her hand a squeeze. “I’ll be there.”
Carolina squealed, launching herself into my lap, and Brooks’s chuckle rumbled low across the space between us. His eyes met mine over her coiled curls, and the weight of his smile nearly knocked the air out of me.
Because we both knew this wasn’t just a birthday party I was saying yes to.
I was already curled up against his headboard, pillow hugged to my stomach, by the time Brooks came back from tucking Carolina in. He shut the door with a quiet click, tossed his sweatshirt on the catchall chair in the corner, and crossed to the bed.
“She’s out,” he murmured, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Didn’t even make it past the first page of Goodnight Moon.”
I smiled faintly. “She had a big day.”
“We all did.”
He sat beside me, close enough that the mattress dipped but not so close that he crowded me.
I could feel the weight of his gaze on me, but I kept my eyes trained on the pillow in my lap.
There was already a seventy-percent chance—okay, ninety-five—that I might burst into tears at any second.
At least this way, I wouldn’t have to watch him, watch me cry.
“Can I be honest with you for a minute?”
“Kitten,” he said softly, “you can be honest with me for as long as you need.”
The words clogged in my throat, but I forced them out. “I’m scared. About what happens when the baby comes, about us. I’ve fought too hard to build a life, a career, an identity—and I’m not willing to give all that up when I become a mom.”
I couldn't bring myself to look at him just yet. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, but I didn't back down. It was all the truth, after all.
“I think— I know that there’s something here between us, but I don’t want to disappoint you. I’m not cut out to be a stay-at-home mom who only hangs out with the other baseball WAGs, so I need you to know that if that’s what you’re looking for, I might not be your girl.”
I finally worked up the nerve to raise my head, only to find him studying me like I was a puzzle he was determined to solve. His lips pressed together in a thin line as he seemed to work through his response.
“I don’t want you to give that up,” he started, leaning forward and bracing his forearms on his thighs. “Not for me or anyone.”