Chapter 32 David
David
It’s been so long since I’ve slept in any bed other than my own that I’m surprised when I wake and know exactly where I am.
It’s before my alarm, and the room is still dark with that deep, pre-dawn hue where the city has gone quiet and the only light is the faint glow of the streetlamps through the curtains.
Nora shifts against me, and all I can think is how right this is. How much I want this as my future.
Her back is pressed to my chest. My arm is around her waist, my hand resting flat against her stomach where her T-shirt has ridden up, and the bare skin beneath my palm is soft and sleep-warm in a way that makes my entire body want to abandon all higher functions and stay exactly here for the rest of recorded history.
She’s breathing slow and even. Warm. Soft. Curled against me like the two of us in bed together is the most natural thing there is.
I press my nose into her hair. She smells like her shampoo and the faintest trace of us, and the combination is so ruinously perfect that I have to close my eyes against it and pull her closer.
My lips find the curve of her shoulder where the T-shirt has slipped, and I press a kiss to the skin there—slow, barely there. She murmurs something and shifts back against me, her body fitting into mine in a way that has my cock hardening against her ass.
“Nora.”
I lower my mouth to the spot below her ear.
Someone clears their throat.
I sit up so fast I nearly launch Nora off the mattress.
Michaela is standing at the foot of the bed.
Clothes from yesterday. Braids wrecked. The stuffed seal dangling from one hand. Archie beside her, sitting, tail doing a slow wag while he pants happily.
And she is grinning.
“I knew it,” she whispers. “I knew you loved each other.”
My heart is doing something that would alarm a medical professional.
“Michaela—”
“I can’t wait to tell Uncle Logan.”
“What— no. Michaela—”
She snatches my phone off the nightstand.
“Michaela Kingsley, do not—”
She’s already out the door. Bare feet slapping hardwood, the seal bouncing against her hip, Archie scrambling after her with absolute devotion.
“MICHAELA!”
I’m out of bed and two steps into the hallway before I remember I’m in boxers and half hard. Shit.
“What’s going on?” Nora asks, from the tangle of blankets behind me.
“Situation,” I say, reaching for the pants I left on the floor. “Immediate situation.”
She blinks, then squints toward the clock. “Is it morning already?”
“Technically, it’s pre-morning.” I hop one-footed down the hall, yanking my pants into place, as Michaela’s voice rings out with the bright, piercing glee of a child who has just discovered her father’s most guarded secret.
“Uncle Logan!” she shouts into the phone.
“It happened! I wasn’t hallucinating, Principal Harrison really did have stars in her eyes for my dad, and I caught them kissing.
It was totally real and not at all inappropriate because I’m in the room and Archie’s here, and they’re both wearing at least sixty percent of their pajamas, and—”
Her voice cuts off as I round the corner into the living room, where Michaela has set my phone on the coffee table, propped against a mug. She’s crouched in front of it, grinning into the screen, seal in a headlock.
Archie’s tail thuds a bassline against the couch. On the phone is Logan—the uncaffeinated version, hair sticking up, glasses askew—and on the edge of the frame, the unmistakable halo of Audrey’s curls.
“Michaela?” Logan says, blinking into the camera. “It’s five in the morning.”
She squints at the screen. “Uncle Logan, are you naked?”
He glances down, startled, and the phone jostles. “I’m wearing boxers,” he says, not quite defensively.
A hand appears from off camera and resettles his glasses.
Audrey leans into view and waves. “Hi, Michaela.”
“Hi, Audrey!” Michaela chirps, then pivots triumphantly toward me. “See! They’re both awake.”
I slide a hand down my face, trying to decide whether to address the matter of, one, boundaries; two, inappropriate use of my contact list; or three, the fact that my eight-year-old is more operational at five a.m. than any living being should be.
“Michaela, give me the phone.”
She grins and tucks the seal under her arm, but stays crouched in front of the camera. “Uncle Logan, it’s important. Daddy has a secret girlfriend, but it’s not a secret anymore because I caught them in flagrante delicto.”
I inhale so sharply I nearly choke.
“That’s not what in flagrante delicto means, Michaela,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“Yes it is!” she insists, delighted. “It’s Latin for caught in the act, and you were, in fact, caught in an act. Just not an actual crime, unless kissing is now prohibited by the King of Pajamas.”
“What?” Logan says, now blinking faster. “Wait, hang on—David?”
I reach over Michaela’s head and snatch the phone, cupping it in my palm as I lock eyes with Logan through the screen.
“Hi,” I say. “Yes, it’s very early. Apologies.”
He stares at me, then at my background, then at my bare chest, then at Michaela, who is humming a happy, villainous tune beside me. Audrey leans in from the side, smothering a sleepy cackle behind her hand.
“Your daughter’s a legend,” she says, voice thick with sleep and what sounds like deep respect.
“Debatable,” I mutter. “I’m currently feeling deep regret over all the money I spend on her education—she’s too smart for her own good.”
“You wouldn’t have it any other way,” Audrey says.
Logan fixes me with a smirk. “So. Principal Harrison, huh?”
“Shut up,” I say.
Audrey bites her lip, beaming at me through the screen. “Tell her congrats from me. And maybe hide your phone next time you sleep over.”
“Noted.” I drag my attention to Michaela, who is bouncing on her heels like she just stuck the landing at the Olympics.
“Monster. Kitchen. Now.” She goes, but not without a perfect little curtsy to the phone camera.
“Goodbye, Uncle Logan. Tell Aunt Audrey I look forward to our next Mario Kart rematch.”
Logan manages a wave before I hang up.
The kitchen is only three steps away, but Michaela manages to look busy the whole walk, stopping to hook her finger into Archie’s collar, then grab a sticky note, then do a little spin.
When I enter, she’s already at the table, legs swinging, face the picture of I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-upset-about.
“Monster, can we talk about—”
“Are you going to marry her?”
If this is how my own clients feel in cross, I owe half of them an apology.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“You should,” Michaela says, matter-of-fact. “You’re already in love with her. And you look happier. Less gloomy.”
“That’s a technical term?”
“In the DSM-5,” she says, without missing a beat.
“You should probably just propose, get it over with, and then Miss Nora can be my mom since the one I have isn’t so great.
Thomas said she’d be better next time. But I’m pretty good at reading people, and bio-mom wasn’t having a good time at all.
Do you think the court will tell Kelsie she can’t be my mom again if you marry Miss Nora? ”
I blink at her. “That’s not exactly how it works, Michaela.”
She makes a face. “I thought maybe if you were married, that would count more. Like, in the legal sense. Maybe the judge would listen.”
Christ. She’s been running calculations on this.
I sit at the table across from her, hands folded. She folds her hands too, mirroring me, the two of us locked in a father-daughter staring contest that stretches out like a hundred other difficult mornings. Only this time she’s not blinking.
“You know Nora’s not a replacement for—” I start.
“Yes, but she’s better,” she interrupts. “So it’s an upgrade, technically.”
“I see.”
“Plus, if you propose now, Kelsie can’t say you’re unstable or whatever.”
I want to laugh, except this isn’t at all a joke to her.
“Nora and I are taking it slow,” I say. “That means we don’t make huge decisions overnight. Or in prep for a review hearing. Understand?”
She sighs, plops her chin in her hand. “Don’t let the opportunity slide, Dad. She’s a ten. And if you keep her, I get Archimedes as a brother. And the A-team will become my cousins. That’s a win-win.”
God. Am I being merit-ranked on romance decisions by my own child?
Nora enters the kitchen then, wrapped in a cardigan with bare legs, hair wild from sleep, and my heart does something it has no business doing after a night like that.
“Morning,” she says, smiling at Michaela first. “Early start?”
Michaela shrugs. “Archie heard a noise.”
“I see.”
“How much of that did you hear?” I ask.
“From ‘less gloomy.’”
“So everything.”
“Essentially.”
Michaela waves from her spot at the table. “Good morning, Miss Nora. I’ve informed Uncle Logan of the situation.”
Nora closes her eyes and leans against the doorframe. “The obvious first choice.”
“Audrey is also aware. And probably Aunt Serena by now.”
“Wonderful.”
“I think Uncle Dominic will know by breakfast.”
“That seems inevitable.”
As if summoning the group chat, my phone vibrates on the table. I flip it over. It’s a message from Caleb.
Caleb:
Just got a text from Layla. Something about you and Harrison? Tell me this is a misfire and not what I actually think it is.
Before I can construct a reply, another buzz:
Dominic:
You dog. Thought you were the steadfast one. Knew it the second I saw you looking at her during Michaela’s dolphin showcase. Proud of you. Also, rooting for a steamy enemies-to-lovers, so don’t let me down.
Then the group chat starts popping off, and my phone is vibrating off its axis.
Serena:
David. Please say it’s true. Let us be happy for you for once.
Layla:
Should I add her as your plus one for the wedding?
Dominic:
@Jenna David is dating Principal Harrison now. So there’s literally no reason for us to deny our love anymore.
Layla:
Don’t bring Jenna into this.
Dominic:
I can’t help it. She’s a goddess and she must be mine.
Bennett:
@Dominic do I need to remove you from the Tokyo deal?
Bennett:
Also, congratulations, David. You deserve to be happy.
Serena:
Tell her she’s invited to brunch at Lockwood this weekend. We need to initiate her into the girl group.
Caleb:
Stop. Everyone stop. David explain yourself before Dad gets wind.
Jenna:
Who keeps adding me back into this group chat? And why are we texting at 5:30 in the morning?
Jenna:
Congratulations to you and Nora, David.
Jenna has left the chat
I sigh so hard my ribs ache, and set the phone on the table.
“So much for all our careful rules,” I say to Nora.
Seven years of framework, detonated by an eight-year-old in pajamas before sunrise.
The rule I wrote the night I found Michaela alone in that apartment—no women, no risk, no soft targets inside the perimeter—is currently being disclosed to a billionaire, an heiress, a litigator, an engineer, a crisis-management consultant, and Jenna.
I should be panicking. Instead, I’m watching my daughter claim Nora out loud, in front of witnesses, without waiting to see if she would be allowed, and realizing that the only person the rule was ever protecting was me.
The side of her mouth tips up—a private, half smile. “They know?”
“They sure do.” I spin the phone so she can see the messages lighting up my screen.
Michaela beams. “You’re welcome.”
Nora looks at me. I look at Nora. We’re standing in her dining room in various states of dress while my daughter grins from ear to ear, her golden retriever wags his tail, and my phone continues buzzing with the news that David Kingsley and Nora Harrison have been outed by a small child with zero impulse control and impeccable timing.
“Pancakes?” Nora says.
“Please,” I say.
“Blueberry!” Michaela shouts.
“You don’t get a vote. You just activated the group chat before the sun came up.”
“I get a vote because I’m the one who was right about everything.”
Nora pushes off the wall and walks toward the kitchen. As she passes me, her hand finds mine—a quick squeeze, there and gone, the same gesture we’ve been trading for months, except this time there’s no one to hide it from.
“For the record,” she murmurs, “I’m choosing to find this funny.”
“When does that start?”
“Possibly after coffee.”
She squeezes once more and lets go. Walks into the kitchen. Opens the fridge. Starts pulling out eggs, flour, and milk with the calm of a woman who has decided that the appropriate response to having her secret relationship announced to a network of billionaires at dawn is to make breakfast.
Michaela slides off her chair and follows, Archie at her heels. “Miss Nora, I want you to know that I’m fully supportive of this relationship and also of any pancake-related decisions you may make in the near future.”
“That’s very magnanimous of you.”
“It’s genetic.” She climbs onto the kitchen stool. “Also, I have conditions.”
“Of course you do.”
“One: Archimedes needs a bed at our apartment. Two: I want to pick the next book you read to me. Three: you come to my swim meets next season.”
Nora pauses with the flour in her hands, the look in her eyes quick, raw—the flash of a woman being invited into a life and not being asked to earn it first.
“Those seem like very reasonable conditions,” she says, and her voice is steady but her eyes are not.
“They are,” Michaela agrees. “I’m known for my reasonableness.”
“That’s categorically untrue,” I say from the table.
“Objection.”
“Overruled.”
“On what grounds?”
“On the grounds that you FaceTimed Uncle Logan from my phone without asking. Your credibility is under review.”
She considers this. “Fair. But my conditions stand.”
Nora sets the flour on the counter and looks between us. The kitchen is filling with the warm light of a morning that was supposed to start on the couch with a white lie and instead started with the truth—delivered by a child who was tired of waiting for the adults to catch up.
“Pancakes,” Nora says again, as if the word somehow centers her. “And then we figure out the rest.”