36. Graciella #2
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he stepped back to get it. The space left me cold. But all my wallowing went out the window when his expression turned to stone.
“Shit.” He was already moving out of the kitchen. “I have to go.”
I scrambled after him. “What happened?”
“Goldie’s daycare.” He shoved the phone into his pocket and grabbed his keys off the coffee table. “She’s sick. Fever, throwing up. I gotta go get her.”
I ducked into the bathroom, grabbing the emergency kit from under the sink. He was halfway into the driver’s side of his truck by the time I made it outside.
“Here, take this.” I shoved the kit at him, the green foil catching the afternoon light.
“I know you probably have stuff for her. I just—” I didn’t have a good reason.
I just needed to do something, because the thought of Goldie curled up feeling awful was heavy in my chest like a bruise. “Just take it.”
He looked at me for a long moment, something moving behind his eyes that I couldn’t quite read.
“Come with me.” It was barely above a whisper.
My mouth went dry. Going with him to something like this was intimate. It was entering both of their lives…and something about that clicked in place, like a missing puzzle piece.
I got in the truck.
He drove like a man on a mission. I didn’t think I’d ever gotten from downtown over to Willow Glen so quickly. We screeched into the daycare lot, and he jumped out. His long strides ate up the distance to the glass front doors, and I jogged to keep up.
“Mr. Monroe.” An older woman smiled from the front desk, unperturbed by Monroe’s scowl. She was probably used to seeing a lot of worried parents come through these doors. “Goldie’s in the nurse’s office, but no need to worry—”
“Thanks,” he called over his shoulder, already down the hallway.
“Could you sign her out?” The woman held a clipboard out to me. “Since Mr. Monroe seems to be in a hurry.”
“Yeah, of course.” I took it, filled in the blanks, a weird feeling looping through me at the sight of my name next to hers on the sign-out sheet. I handed it back before I could look too deep into it. “Thank you,” I said, rushing after Monroe.
I caught up right as he turned into a small room with colorful animal posters on the walls. Goldie was curled on her side, cheeks flushed an angry red.
“Daddy?” Her voice cracked on the word.
He crossed the room in two steps, scooping her up like she weighed nothing.
“Hey, Golds.” His voice was soft—tender—one big hand cradling the back of her head. “Daddy’s here.”
She melted into his chest, her small fingers fisting in his shirt. He closed his eyes and pressed his face into her hair. They held on to one another like they were each other’s world. Because they were.
I shouldn’t be here.
This was private. I was an intruder in something tender, something special.
I took a step back. Then another.
“Gracie?” Goldie lifted her head from her dad’s shoulder, eyes finding me.
“Hey, Golden Girl.” I kept my voice easy, tamping down my urge to pull her into my arms and comfort her. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
She nodded, offering a watery smile, but then her face changed. A split second of warning, before she threw up all over Monroe’s shirt.
He didn’t flinch.
Just shifted his grip, kept her steady, murmured something low against her temple while she cried.
I was moving before I realized it, standing behind a crying Goldie.
“Sana sana, colita de rana. Si no sanas hoy, sanarás manana,” I said, pulling her hair back from her face, working it into a braid the way I’d done with my little cousins a hundred times, fingers moving on autopilot.
“There you go, sweetheart.” I tied off the braid with an elastic tucked in the bag I’d brought and sat back on my heels.
Her cries slowed to a whimper, squeezing my heart.
Monroe hadn’t moved, still holding her. But he was watching me with an expression that made my pulse race.
Luckily the foul scent kept me from lingering too long on what that look could mean. I’d have plenty of time to overanalyze every moment of this adventure after Goldie was home and on the mend.
And when chunks of god knows what were not coating two of the three people in the room.
“Okay.” I reached for the hem of my T-shirt, and pulled it over my head in one motion, leaving me in nothing but a gray cami. “Get her out of that.”
Monroe blinked, like he was trying to register the request. “What?”
“Her shirt.” I jerked my chin at her limp little figure. “I don’t want her to ride home covered in that stuff.”
Realization dawned on him, and he shifted her weight to one arm and worked her dress over her head with his free hand. “She might throw up on yours, though…”
“That’s okay,” I said, easing it over her. Fabric swallowed her, the sleeves falling past her elbows, the hem hitting her knees.
She looked down at herself and then up at me with a toothy smile, and I couldn’t take it anymore.
I took her.
Her small body settled against my chest, warming me with her feverish cheeks, but also from within. I was so fucking screwed, head over heels for her as much as I was her dad.
“Your turn,” I said, looking at Monroe over the top of her head. “Take your shirt off.”
He stood there. “You gonna let me wear that little gray thing you got on? Because I’m pretty sure that won’t fit over my biceps, and I don’t have any other shirt options.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I guess the ladies are about to get a show. Because you reek and there’s no way we’re riding back with you in that.”
Goldie popped her head up from my shoulder. “Yeah, Daddy, you stink.”
He let out a low laugh.
“Fine, you two win.” He reached back and pulled his shirt off with one hand.
And because I was holding a sick five-year-old, and I had my priorities straight, I didn’t stare at the V-cut lines disappearing into his waistband, or drool over his muscled chest—at least not very long.
“Graciella.”
His voice was low, tinged with something that had my eyes snapping to his.
“Come home with us.”