Chapter 1 #2
I pick up the pace as the small group of onlookers turns into a crowd. We quickly move past a group more interested in online validation than the safety of our children, but no matter how fast we walk or how risky our moves are, the dark-haired stranger is never more than a step or two behind.
The crowd parts when they see him approaching, giving him a clear view of our escape.
He doesn’t utter a word while shadowing us, but his silence speaks louder than any protest. I sense the frustration radiating off him, but I don’t stop. Even as my mind races with worst-case scenarios, I stay positioned between him and the little girl, as if my body is a bulletproof shield.
My heart gallops when I see a police officer standing by the crowd. Even though he’s watching the scene unfold and doing nothing to help, he’s ethically obligated to assist. Isn’t he?
“Excuse me,” I say, almost marching. “This little girl needs help. She’s scared and doesn’t feel safe.”
The officer scarcely glances at me before his eyes dart up to the man I thought would have vanished as soon as he saw the officer’s impressive weapon collection.
He’s carrying two guns, a taser, and a baton, but you wouldn’t believe that with how hard his Adam’s apple bobs when recognition dawns on his face.
His pupils dilate to the size of saucers before he shifts his focus back to me. “What do you require my help with?”
I stare at him, incredulous. “I just told you. She’s scared.”
He shrugs, his indifference maddening. “Being scared isn’t a crime. You need to be more specific.”
As I thrust my hand at the brute, whose shadow blocks the low-hanging sun haloing my hair, the dental hygienist from the clinic suddenly appears out of nowhere.
“Camille, is everything okay?” My throat constricts when she bobs down to the little girl’s level before she brushes away a lone tear from her cheek.
“A visit to the dentist can be scary, but remember what Daddy and I told you last time you came to visit me?” The world falls in on me when she drifts her eyes to the stranger and smiles fondly during the “daddy” part of her reply.
“Dr. Baglio won’t hurt you. But she needs to fix a tiny cavity before it causes you any discomfort. ”
Oh, shit.
Heat creeps up my neck as my high shoulders sink. Camille is here for a dental visit. The only thing she fears is the cold, sterile chair inside, not the man I accused of something terrible.
My cheeks flush with embarrassment as I force myself to look up.
Camille’s father, with his arms crossed over his broad chest, watches me with his full lips quirked at one side.
His expression is a strange mix of relief, annoyance, and something else I can’t identify.
It could be pride, but what would I know?
No one has ever looked at me that way before.
Well, except for that one time.
“I’m so sorry.” My voice barely rises above a whisper. “I thought…” This is why I shouldn’t get involved. You can’t have a childhood like mine without seeing the negative in every situation. “I thought I was helping. Truly, I did.”
He exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing. As the awkwardness diminishes slightly, he uncrosses his arms and lets them fall to his sides.
While I should leave it there, my humiliation won’t let me. “I thought she was scared of you. I didn’t realize she was afraid of the dentist.”
I glance down at Camille. She seems calmer now, but her fingers still grip my hand firmly enough that her nails indent my skin. She’s still scared, and it pulls at the strings inside me I thought had fallen apart a long time ago.
As before, I kneel before her, but this time I try to understand her fear rather than erase it.
“I used to hate the dentist, too. But Dr. Baglio is super nice. She fixed my tooth.” I smile broadly, then arch my head toward the sun, hoping she will notice a small sliver of the crack the dentist fixed.
“Although it was scary, it didn’t hurt at all. ”
When her eyes search mine for reassurance, I smile, hoping to convey safety. Her hand becomes less clammy the longer she stares, but even as her father gently reaches for her, she refuses to let go of my hand.
Though he doesn’t seem annoyed by our immediate bond, he sounds a little perplexed while saying, “Come on, Camille. Let’s head inside. Dr. Baglio is waiting.”
Camille shakes her head as she clutches my hand. My heart aches when she blinks up at me with pleading, watery eyes. She doesn’t speak, but her message is clear: She’s still terrified.
“It’s okay to be scared, Camille,” I assure her, brushing away a loose strand of hair from her forehead. “Everyone feels that way sometimes, even grown-ups.”
She peers up at her dad, incapable of imagining someone as big and strong as him being scared, and my smile turns genuine. It isn’t solely his nod of confirmation that even he sometimes gets scared that makes me grin like a clown. It’s also his vow to protect her from harm.
“You’re safe with me, Camille. It’s a father’s job to protect his children, even more so when she is his little princess. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”
When the words I would have sold my soul to the devil to hear from my father don’t stretch beyond Camille’s fear, he bribes her with the very thing that most likely caused her cavity.
“We’ll be in and out in under an hour, and then we can use the rest of our time to visit that sweets shop Uncle Elio told you about. You can get anything you want. The sky is the limit.”
Camille almost succumbs to peer pressure—the call of endless candy too overwhelming even for a child—but she is as stubborn as I wish I’d been at her age.
She stands her ground, and I admire her tenacity.
The world would be a better place if we all recognized our self-worth.
After glancing at her father, who appears as lost as I feel, I throw caution to the wind. “Would you like me to come with you? I don’t start work for another two hours, so I have time.” I clear my throat to soothe the jitters in my voice before saying, “If it’s okay with your father, of course.”
She snaps her eyes to her father so fast that my neck muscles protest on her behalf before she silently pleads in a way no morally ethical father could deny.
A silent shriek escapes her when he stares at me for three terrifying seconds before he bobs his chin.
Faster than I can blink, Camille jumps forward and leads us toward the dental clinic, her strides surprisingly confident. Our walk down the sidewalk is silent but held together by a misunderstanding and, strangely, a shared sense of purpose.
I feel her father’s eyes on me the moment Camille reaches for his hand, wordlessly requesting to link us together. The gesture is so simple and innocent, yet it sends a jolt through me.
We’ll be a chain rather than three individual links.
I anticipate some form of resistance. I get nothing close to that. Instead, with a smirk that could stop traffic, he curls his fingers around Camille’s tiny hand, and for a moment, around my heart as well.
His commitment to ensuring his daughter’s happiness blindsides me as much as my inability to walk away only minutes ago. I’ve never met a man so willing to disregard every belief that his gender is the superior race, and my mouth dries.
The knocks keep coming when he brings his eyes back to mine.
He doesn’t fill his watch with the false flattery I typically get.
It isn’t hungry, fleeting, or transactional.
He scrutinizes me with a focus that’s almost analytical.
There’s warmth beneath it, but also a curiosity that unsettles me in ways I can’t explain.
I should be nervous, possibly even defensive. Instead, it’s something else entirely.
I could be wrong—I have little to base this on—but it feels like the sensation of belonging. I don’t know him. We’re strangers tied together by a misunderstanding and a child who clings to my hand as if I’m her lifeline. Yet as his gaze lingers, my anxiety softens.
I’m accustomed to being judged by men who see only what they want. His scrutiny is different, however. It’s searching but not cruel, as if he’s striving to see past the layers I wear to hide the real me.
I shouldn’t feel comfortable or safe after being ruefully stripped of my cloak of anonymity, but for some insane reason, I do.
It’s weird, like stepping into a house you’ve never visited and realizing the decor fits you perfectly.
I want to be enough to hold his attention, even with every instinct urging me to keep my head down and stay invisible.
I’ve spent years keeping people at arm’s length, convinced that closeness only leads to pain, but Camille’s firm grip and her father’s heart-stuttering watch make me wonder what could happen if I granted myself permission to be a part of something bigger, even if it were only fleeting.
Inside the clinic, Camille still won’t release my hand. While her father fills out the paperwork I was worried about earlier, I sit beside her in the waiting room, my backside precariously hanging on a chair unsuitable for adults.
Camille doesn’t talk, but I keep her nerves calm by reminding her how much better I feel since the dentist fixed my tooth.
When her name is called, panic flashes through her eyes. I squeeze her hand before guiding her into the room I had been in less than twenty minutes ago.
The dentist smiles as Camille climbs onto the dental chair without letting go of my hand, then shows her the tools she’ll use during the appointment.
Camille’s grip on my hand slackens when Dr. Baglio uses the bumpy drill to tickle her stomach. It fully relaxes when the tickle path moves to her hands. She’s so eager to feel the vibrations of its whirrs that she holds both hands out, palms up.
While smoothing the crinkles in my coat, I glance at the exit. I could slip away now, and no one would be the wiser. I’m a stranger who unexpectedly entered their day, so staying would be more intrusive than helpful. Not only for Camille and her father, but for myself as well.
Believing Camille is distracted enough to miss my departure, I tilt toward the door. Before I take even a single step, a hand shoots out and snatches up my arm. Sparks jump from my skin, sudden and electric.
Stunned by the strength and circumference of Camille’s grip, I crack my neck back. My throat dries when my eyes don’t land on the tiny Sicilian I was expecting. This Sicilian native is much taller, and his gaze is far more detrimental to my sanity.
Camille didn’t grab me.
Her father did.
“Stay,” he says, his expression earnest and desperate. “She’ll never forgive me if I let you get away. I have a lot of ground to make up, so the last thing I need is another reason for her to hate me.”
I stare at him, caught between the awkwardness of lingering like a loser and the unexpected warmth of feeling needed.
For a long time, no one has desired me for anything beyond my body.
After a deliberation nowhere near long enough for the tenseness of the situation, I smile sheepishly and nod. “I’ll stay until her appointment is over.”
Relief spreads across his face, and Camille brightly smiles, still attentive enough to catch the exchange between her father and me.
I can only pray she can’t feel the sparks.
I don’t want her to get burned.
Needing distance before I set alight, I help Camille put on the sunglasses that will shield her eyes from any hazards, while recalling how doing the right thing isn’t always the easiest thing to do.
More often than not, it means staying to fight even when it’s safer to run.