Chapter 15 #2
I search his eyes, seeing nothing but a fierce protectiveness in his gaze, and it’s in stark contrast to the Happy Slater I thought I knew less than five minutes ago. “What about Lucky’s… mom?”
“Mila.” Happy says with a faraway smile.
“I met her when I was at CU. She lived in Boulder. We were never anything serious. Casual for a year or so before she found out she was pregnant.” He shakes his head, smiling at the memory.
“God, I was so excited, which was weird, because I was barely even nineteen, and all of a sudden, I was going to have a kid.” He sniffs a laugh.
“But the funny thing was, as soon as I found out Mila was pregnant, it was suddenly all I wanted… to be a dad. And when Lucky was born, it was like finding a piece of my heart that I didn’t realize had been missing. ”
I smile at that.
“Is Mila still in Boulder?” The very moment I ask the question, I immediately regret it, a silence thick with pain settling between us as a shadow falls over Happy’s face.
He moves to the sofa, taking a seat and, with a heavy sigh, he hunches forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring down at the floor.
I take a seat next to him, waiting for what, I don’t exactly know.
“Happy?” I say softly, placing my hand on his arm.
He clears his throat. “We co-parented while I was at CU. And when I came back to New York, Mila and Lucky stayed in Boulder. Mila worked at a local salon. She was seeing a guy. They were settled, and so we just continued co-parenting as best as we could when I came back here.”
I nod slowly, feeling that ominous ball of dread settle in the pit of my gut because I can tell this story is about to take a violent turn for the worst.
“But one night I got a call.” Happy’s face goes pale. “Mila had been driving home with Lucky, and they… they were in a car accident. A drunk driver. Um… Mila died.”
I cover my mouth with my hands, and I don’t know why, but the only thing that flashes through my mind is when I questioned Happy the other night about being drunk after he offered to drive me home, and just how quickly he shifted, how brutally defensive he became.
It lasted merely a moment, but it was there, and it was startling. And this. This is why.
“The car was totaled. They said Mila died instantly. But… somehow Lucky came out of it with barely a scratch. She was only three. But she’d been trapped in the car on the side of the road with her…
dead mama… crying, screaming for her. The paramedics said that she was fucking distraught, barely able to breathe through her sobs by the time they arrived. ” He sniffs.
A stuttering breath racks through me. That poor baby.
“That’s why Chris knows,” Happy says. “I had to take a leave of absence, and… I wanted to keep it as quiet as we could, what with me and my family and the potential for a fucking media circus. I didn’t want things to be harder for Lucky than they needed to be.”
I remember that time. It happened at the beginning of last season.
Happy was noticeably missing, and the official statement had confirmed that it was due to a personal matter.
I remember rumors circulating that he’d gotten a woman pregnant and was handling it, and I remember how there were some really horrible things being said about him.
The thought that this is what he was dealing with makes me sick to my stomach.
My gaze dips down to where the top buttons on his shirt are undone, a hint of his chest on display where his tattoo sits proudly, right over his heart. The tattoo I wondered if had been done by a child.
“Your tattoo,” I say with a small smile. “Lucky.”
He chuckles, looking down and pulling his shirt open a little wider.
“That was the first time Lucky ever wrote her own name. I had it copied and inked onto me so that I could keep it forever.” Smiling wistfully, Happy continues, “Mila and I had agreed on naming her Lucy, and then I made the joke of accidentally filling out the paperwork wrong, like my dad did, and having her named Lucky or something, and Mila suddenly loved the idea of naming her Lucky, so it stuck. And maybe it was fate because, man, she easily could’ve been taken from me that night… ”
I squeeze his thigh in a show of support, and Happy shifts, turning to me. I meet his eyes, caught off-guard by the flash of fear in his gaze.
“Baby Draper, this… this can’t go any further.
” He exhales shakily, raking a hand through his hair again, taking a moment before continuing.
“Lucky suffers from C-PTSD. Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Up until about twelve months ago, she was so messed up she was non-verbal. We’ve done a lot of work with her doctors and therapists, but she still has nightmares where she wakes up screaming, sweating, trembling, barely breathing.
She’s… she was broken, and I’ve been trying to put her back together, and…
I-I’m not willing to risk her being hurt again. Not yet, at least.”
I’m nodding vigorously before he’s even finished talking, giving his leg another reassuring squeeze. “Happy, you have my word. I promise.”
His shoulders drop on another trembling exhale, the tension in them easing some, and he places his hand over mine on his thigh, looking down at it a moment before his eyes lift, meeting mine once again. “Thank you.”
We sit for a long moment, staring into one another’s eyes, and the longer we stay here, the more I’m seeing Happy in an entirely different light.
Yes, he’s still the handsome, cocky as all hell, complete man-whore hockey player, but he’s also this fiercely protective father who has been through more than any one person should have to go through, who will do anything to keep his daughter—the true love of his life—safe, no matter what.
“I should go,” I say quietly, my words spoken with little to no conviction whatsoever because honestly, I don’t want to go, but I know I can’t stay. Not tonight.
Happy nods but says nothing, his hand still covering mine over his thigh, his dark eyes tracking from mine down to my lips and back again.
After a few beats, I stand. Happy stands with me, his hand that had been on mine turning, and we loosely link fingers. Again, we take a few moments just staring at one another, the air between us thick and heavy in the best kind of way.
I turn, and Happy follows, our fingers still entwined as I lead the way back down the spiral stairs to the foyer, his warmth so close behind me. And as I stop at the door, I spin around, and Happy immediately closes the space between us, our chests touching as his other hand envelops mine.
Peering up at him through my lashes, I search his eyes, our hearts beating hard and fast, in perfect sync with one another.
“Can I kiss you?” he whispers, his voice low and throaty and delicious, but also tentative, with a hint of fragility. Very unlike Happy Slater.
I glimpse his perfect lips and suddenly want nothing more. But I choose to keep the moment light, offering him an indulgent roll of my eyes. “I mean, if you must…”
“Brat,” he says on a low chuckle, his thumb and forefinger gently clamping my chin, steadying me, and when I see the look in his eyes, I feel a breath catch in the back of my throat because I know this is about more—so much more—than just a kiss.
Edging closer, Happy’s lips graze mine in the ghost of a kiss, and an involuntary shudder rolls through me.
He pulls back just enough to gauge me, his eyes darkening even more as they flit between mine.
And then, as if he can’t wait a second longer, he crashes his lips to mine, claiming me with the sort of kiss that steals every last whisper of breath from my lungs, my knees buckling in a way that I’m forced to grip his shirt to stop myself from falling to the floor in a heap.
And it’s here, in this foyer of this sprawling Upper East Side townhouse, that I realize something; this is so much more than just frenemies with benefits, and strangely, it’s not even half as terrifying as I thought it would be.