Chapter 19
Maddie
The baby monitor crackles, and for a second I think I’ve dreamed it, but then my whole body snaps wide awake. Until Grayce came into my life, I’d never been able to be so instantly alert and ready to battle demons when called.
I guess it’s a mom thing.
I stretch my arms over my head and cool air slips over my bare shoulders, and—oh God.
Atlas is in my bed.
No, wait… I’m in his bed.
Naked and tangled in sheets, his arm heavy across my waist. A full-body, theatrical memory slides through me, of what we did and how easily I let myself fall into him. Heat blooms in my cheeks even as a thread of anxiety blooms under my sternum.
The monitor pops again, cheerful, oblivious. “Da-da-da.”
Atlas jerks awake beside me, a sharp inhale, his hand going reflexively to the nightstand like he’s trying to turn off his alarm. Then the sound threads through—Grayce’s singsong da-da—and his expression changes all at once. The sleep falls off his face and he realizes he’s needed.
“I’ve got her,” I blurt, already ripping the sheet back before he can move.
He does the same. “No, I’ve got her.”
Atlas swings his legs over the side, grabbing sweatpants out of a dresser drawer and shoving long legs into them with athletic efficiency.
I stand there naked, because my clothes are down in the man cave and I’m frozen in place.
Atlas’s eyes flick down my body and his lips curve as appreciation shines in his eyes. “Now that’s a pretty picture.”
My cheeks flame, even though I’m not normally self-conscious. But his sexy tone throws me off and I pull the sheets back over me.
My hair is a wild snarl, the kind that says you made questionable decisions, and I rake my fingers through it to distract from this awkwardness.
It’s clear he finds me utterly adorable in my embarrassment and like a gentleman, he grabs one of his T-shirts from his drawer and tosses it to me. “Okay. You change her, I’ll get breakfast and coffee.”
A truce born out of deference to morning-after weirdness and I’m grateful. I nod like a bobblehead, because if I try to speak, the mix of tenderness and terror will slosh right out.
Atlas leaves the room, feet padding down the hallway. I roll out of bed and pull his t-shirt on. It swallows me up and smells like him, and yeah… I pull the collar up over my nose and inhale deeply.
So good.
But then Grayce babbles again, and I make my way upstairs to the nursery. I find her standing in her crib, tiny fingers hooked over the rail, hair a wispy halo of bedhead. She beams when she sees me—two bottom teeth, cheeks like peaches—and flaps her hands like I came back from war.
“Hey, sunshine,” I whisper, and my voice cracks on sunshine because sometimes love is a punch you never see coming.
I scoop her up, and she smooshes her face into my neck, warm and damp and smelling like baby sleep.
A crooned “da-da-da” vibrates against my skin, which is the sound she makes most repetitively.
I wish Gray had been able to hear that before he died.
“Let’s do a fresh diaper and then see what your da-da-da made us, okay?”
She squeals in agreement, delighted with the plan, and I ease her onto the changing table.
The practiced movements should ground me because routine can be the best coping mechanism.
But my stomach is a tight, nervous knot, because last night was the opposite of routine.
It was reckless and so good and now the morning light is tattling on us, almost accusing. I know what you two did last night.
I snap Grayce into a clean onesie with fluffy cats printed across the chest and tell myself to breathe through the emotions.
Lust.
Loneliness.
Hope.
Fear.
By the time we make it downstairs, fear is winning.
Atlas is a problem I can’t afford. Not because he’s bad, which would be easier. He’s kind and solid, a man any woman would want.
But I’ve spent years surviving with no one to lean on but myself, and here he is, accepting the weight of my past on his shoulders. What happens when those shoulders get tired?
Will I be set aside and abandoned?
Grayce and I reach the kitchen, and I pause in the doorway, inhaling the aromas of cinnamon, coffee and warm oats.
Atlas has the kettle already off the burner, the coffee maker gurgling its last sputter, a bowl of oatmeal cooling on the counter.
There’s a plate of banana slices and quartered strawberries arranged in a little arc on a plate.
I take a moment and watch. He’s clearly in his element and I wonder if this is how he always was or if this is new. He pours two cups of coffee, drool pooling in my mouth upon seeing that naked back. He turns to find me watching him.
He smiles at me, then his gaze goes to Grayce. “Hey, bug,” he says, and she chitters as she lunges at him.
“Da-da-da.”
I hand her over and he takes her with that easy, careful strength I’ve come to admire. I’m shocked when he flashes me a guilty smile. “I’m really sorry.”
I blink at him in surprise. “For what?”
He glances down at Grayce in his arms. “Because she’s always saying da-da and I’ve been trying to get her to say ma-ma.”
I stare at him, speechless.
“I don’t want your feelings hurt, and I don’t know why she’s focused on me when you’re her favorite person—”
“Atlas,” I say, cutting him off. “That’s not what’s happening. She’s not choosing you over me.”
He frowns, glances at Grayce suspiciously. “She’s not?”
I laugh, laying a hand on his arm and setting aside all my morning-after emotional turmoil. “Babies tend to be able to say da sounds first because they’re easier.”
His eyes narrow suspiciously. “You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?”
I tip my head back and laugh. “I’m not that nice. Google it sometime.”
Before he can respond, Grayce puts her hand on his chin. “Da-da-da-da-da-da.”
Atlas grins at her. “You working on your scales in there? Sounded like an aria.”
“Da-da-da,” she solemnly informs him.
“I heard. Genius level.” His eyes are sparkling when they come to me. “Thank you for explaining that. Now drink your coffee.”
I don’t argue. We’ve lapsed into a routine, often alternating mornings of who feeds the baby while the other has hot java.
Atlas sets Grayce in her high chair, slides the tray into place, and pulls a silicone bib over her head with comical seriousness. He spoons oatmeal into a tiny bowl, stirs in a swirl of peanut butter, then thins it with milk. The domestic choreography is deadly—renders him a million times sexier.
I make myself move, nabbing my black coffee and sipping it while also doctoring his coffee with a splash of almond milk.
Atlas feeds Grayce the first spoonful, and she contemplates it with skepticism before leaning forward with her mouth opened like a baby bird. He plops a small amount on her tongue and she immediately grabs the oatmeal from her mouth and smears it into her hair.
I can’t help but laugh and Atlas shoots me a mock glare before declaring confidently, “Let’s try this again.”
This time Grayce takes the bite, gums it for a bit and swallows. He flashes me a look that says, See, we can do this.
And that’s when pure panic rises within me.
Because it would be so easy to fall into this rhythm. Coffee exactly how I like it. The way his forearms look when he braces both hands on the counter and laughs. The fact that he laughs when Grayce flings strawberries like they’re confetti.
Every one of those actions that stitch a life together until it’s a secure quilt you can sleep under.
I grip the edge of the island hard enough to hurt.
“Maddie?” Atlas’s voice is soft. “You okay?”
No. Yes. I don’t know.
I force my fingers to unhook. “I’m fine.” I try on a smile that feels like a mismatched pair of socks. “I’ll make more coffee.”
“There’s plenty,” he says, and flicks a glance at my untouched mug. “Drink while it’s hot. That’s the deal.”
“I know,” I say flippantly.
He laughs, and it’s ridiculous how much I love the sound of it. “It’s a system. I pour, you drink. Tomorrow you pour, I drink.”
“You’re a system nerd.”
“Says the woman who labeled the spice drawer by cuisine.” He gestures with the spoon toward the neat little rows I color-coded last week. “Italian, Mexican, and Miscellaneous? Completely unhinged.”
Grayce bangs her hands on the tray and makes a sound like a velociraptor. She’s a tiny tyrant demanding attention, and we both look over like backup dancers waiting for our cue. She’s grinning, oatmeal in her eyelashes.
“Queen of Chaos,” I say as I move toward her with a wet cloth. “We are your humble servants.”
She pats my face with a sticky hand when I lean in to wipe her cheeks, then uses the opportunity to yank my hair.
I yelp, she cackles, and Atlas watches us with an expression that I should never let myself memorize.
It’s too nakedly happy and I could fall into this.
I could let myself forget that the world is unkind and unfair.
I straighten, cloth clenched in my fist. “Atlas.”
He hears the change in my voice and goes still. His spoon hovers over the bowl, oatmeal dripping, then lands with a soft plop. “Yeah?”
“We can’t… do this.” The words fall out stilted, unplanned, and I’m not sure if they’re appropriate. “Last night was a mistake.”
He studies me and I study him back, trying to decode his expression.
Not angry.
Not even surprised.
Just alert. Maybe careful.
“A mistake,” he muses in a way that tells me he doesn’t believe that at all.
“An impulsive lapse.” I hate how clinical I sound, like I’m writing a case note. “We’re tired. Emotional. You’re stressed about the season. I’m—” Lost? Lonely? Ruined by the feeling of your mouth on mine? “Dealing with a lot. It was human nature for us to fall into that but truly, it’s not smart.”
He sets the spoon down and his expression is transparent.
He’s irritated.