Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
QUINTON
The sunset illuminates Celeste’s hair, setting her against the world’s most beautiful time of day, only to pale in comparison.
Nope, not here to gawk at the new neighbor.
“Maisey here?” I snap out.
Hell, if I’m friendly right now, I’m not only the creep that was watching her the other night, but I may as well say goodbye to my gonads. Because despite my attempts at keeping this woman out of my damn head, she’s lodged in there.
Her face twists in annoyance.
Good.
“Kitchen.” She waves a hand, sarcasm dripping from the gesture.
After helping Marie a few times, I know where it is. I walk down the hall and take the second left. I find my girl perched on a stool, dipping a cookie into a glass of milk.
“Oh hey, Daddy,” she says, beaming like she didn’t just give me the fright of a lifetime by disappearing from the house without a word.
“Something wrong with the cookies at home, Maise?” I fold my arms over my chest, and she returns the gesture as she tips up her chin.
“Nope. Celeste needed my help.”
The woman in question rounds the doorframe, clearing her throat.
I spin back to find her lips pursed together.
Oh, I see how it is.
My kid and the woman who can barely stand me are . . . teaming up on me?
“This true? Or did you just lure her here with cookies to mess with me, Celeste?”
It’s the first time I’ve called her by her first name, and her expression morphs from nonchalant to surprise before she has time to school it back. When my brows fall along with my patience, I turn back.
A hand catches my biceps. “No, it’s not her fault.”
Now, my brows are raised, my gaze falling to the fine hand that barely wraps halfway around my arm.
“Sorry, it was my fault. And for what it’s worth, Maisey was helping me.”
There’s a beat that passes between us before she realizes her hand still grips my arm. When her fingers fall away, I glance between her and Maisey.
“I’ll see you at home in ten.” I give her my best dad-means-business face, and she nods, her mouth full of cookie and the glass gripped in her small hand.
“Sorry for scaring you, Daddy,” Maise says after swallowing the cookie down with a sip of milk.
I grunt and shake my head.
A parent’s worst nightmare is losing a kid. At least, it’s mine. Maise is my damn life. And I hers, whether it should be that way or not.
“I’ll walk her home,” Celeste says with a shy smile.
“You sure you can cross over into enemy territory and live to tell the tale?” I grind out, walking past her, my shoulder brushing hers.
I ignore the heat that lances with the tiniest of contact.
“I’ll stick it out. For Maisey.”
I huff a low sound that’s pure sarcasm with maybe a hint of amusement. Sure she will.
But the woman takes care of her father, which is no easy feat. And from all the stories I’ve heard in our short time here, both Hank and his family were the heart and soul of Grafton for a long time. Before they left for one reason or another.
I let the screen door slam behind me and trudge through the half-melted tide of snow back to the house. Maisey is good with people, and if she needs to come home, she will.
And besides, I can pretty much see them from my kitchen window. On that note, I find doing dishes more appealing than I should. Running water into the sink, I add dish detergent before swirling the hot water with my hand.
Over the snow-covered white picket fence, I see Maise and Celeste move about the kitchen. They huddle by the oven, peering into it like they’re looking for damn treasure . . .
When Celeste opens the door and Maisey hands her an oven mitt, she slides out whatever they were looking at and turns, dropping it on the counter.
It’s not marble.
Maisey’s hands flail in the air. She’s telling Celeste something very animatedly.
The pan comes up, a tea towel slides underneath it as she sets it back down. They stand back as if admiring whatever is in that pan.
And then I see it . . .
Maisey, my only child and best little bud, holds her hand high. Our thing. The way we celebrate, well, everything.
Celeste slaps hers to it and they jump around celebrating who knows what.
Something like envy or annoyance snaps in my chest. I growl at the selfish sentiment. A girl needs friends apart from just her old man. Especially someone who isn’t her old man.
With her mother nonexistent in our life, she could use someone who understands the things she will go through. Girl stuff.
I always thought I would find someone to share our life with before she got to that point. Guess there’s still time . . .
The washing up is done in a few minutes. And I busy myself with business, lining up next month’s jobs for the crew and replying to the never-ending emails that insist on pouring in, despite the holidays coming up.
It takes a solid hour to get through it all. And when I look up from the laptop, the sky is dark outside.
Dammit.
I push from the chair, stretching. The house is far too quiet. Maisey still isn’t home. Walking to the front door, I put on my coat and walk outside. I pull the door closed behind me and hear raucous laughter a second later.
The Blacks’ house is lit up, the happy sounds of Maise and her new friend spilling from somewhere behind the huge old home.
I take the side gate and make my way down to the backyard.
Flood lights hanging from the eaves light up the glittering winter snow that’s still coating every inch of Hank’s yard.
Hank himself is bundled up and sitting on a lawn chair among the snow as Maisey runs around, scooping up snow as she goes, rolling it into a ball. She ducks behind one of the few trees. I cross the snow to stand beside Hank.
“Evening,” I offer.
He looks up from his book, Mark Twain something or other.
“Oh, hi there. Have a seat.”
I chuckle, noticing there isn’t another seat besides the one he’s sitting in. When his stare doesn’t leave my face, I nod toward the back of the house. “I’ll just go grab one.”
I pop into the sunroom and take a chair from by the back door. He must store them away in case of blizzards and such.
I plop the chair by him and drop into it.
It’s cold out here, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he scans the yard without another word.
“Who are you looking for?” I ask.
The smile that lights up his face warms my chest. “Tisha, she’s hiding from me.”
Tisha?
I clear my throat. I know his condition is pretty bad, but I thought his immediate family would, you know, stick?
“You know where she’d run off to?” I prompt.
“She’s good at this game. But I’ll get her soon enough.”
Utterly perplexed, I can’t peel my gaze from his face.
Something hard and wet smacks into the side of my head. A gasp follows with a curse.
Maisey is giggling like a damn fool as I lean and shake my head, dislodging the snow from my face.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry! I didn’t realize you were here.” Celeste’s face is stretched under awkward regret.
“Tisha!” Hank perks up. “See, told you she’d find us.”
Celeste’s expression flattens before she schools it into a smile.
Geez, that must be tough. And for the first time since this hot-headed, ridiculous woman came into my life, I feel for her.
And the way Hank looks at her makes me wonder if she resembles whoever Tisha is.
I’m sure that’s it. A good resemblance. Easy enough to mistake someone, especially in Hank’s condition . . . I stand and pluck up the chair, planning on returning it.
“Please, can we stay just a little longer, Daddy?” Maisey runs for me, hanging from the chair in my hand. My cue to return it to the snowy ground from whence it came.
“It’s late, kiddo. Maybe another time.”
“Oh shoot, it is, too. Da—Hank, you need your dinner and meds.” Celeste closes in on her father, helping him up from the chair.
“Sorry for keeping her,” she adds as she brushes her father down with a hand while his gaze wanders the backyard. She slips the book from his hand and closes it, tucking it under her arm.
“It’s fine. I’m glad you guys had fun.” The words are half defeat, half compassion.
And fully feeling out of place coming from my lips.
But the sentiment is genuine. I know exactly how exhausting being someone’s full-time caretaker is.
Being a single parent is not too different to what she’s undertaking here.
But at least Maisey is of sound mind and body. More than I can say for Hank.
Celeste has her hands full. And I daresay her heart, too.
“Well, we better be getting inside. Routine is everything.” She forces a smile and leads her father back inside.
A heavy weight hangs on my free hand. “Daddy, can I come back tomorrow, after school? Pleeeeaaasseeee.”
“I don’t know, honey, I think Celeste has enough on her plate with Hank.”
“Isn’t he her daddy?” Her bright eyes reflect confusion.
“Yeah, he is. But Celeste takes care of him now.”
“Oh, why? Aren’t Daddies supposed to take care of their little girls, instead?”
“They are. But sometimes they need help, too.”
“Oh,” she huffs and starts for the side of the house, dragging me behind. “When will you need me?”
I chuckle. Walked right into that one.
“Maybe one day. Nothing to worry about now.”
By the time we make it home and inside, I see Celeste cleaning up in the kitchen. Most of their lights are now out, the upper windows darkened. We eat a small meal of leftovers and Maisey helps me clean up. I run her a bath before tucking her into bed.
When I finally retire to my own room, I notice a window brightened on our side of the Black’s house. Tugging my shirt off, I stare at it, wondering who’s roo—
Celeste walks past in what looks like winter flannel pajamas, twisting her hair with her hands and piling it on top of her head. She secures it with a clip before dropping onto the bed and pointing a remote at what I assume is the television mounted on the wall opposite the big bed.
Fuck.
I shouldn’t be peering through the windows at her.
She taps the remote over and over before tossing it on the bed and picking up a book from her bedside.
I pad to my bathroom and shower before brushing my teeth and pulling on a T-shirt and boxers. Never seen the point of pajamas, really.
When I make it back to the bed, the light next door is still on.
I make a point to not look at it. Temptation proving stronger than I anticipated, I decide to check on Maise one last time. That way I’m out of line of sight of the window.
Padding across the hall, I push Maisey’s bedroom door open a crack. She’s sound asleep, still tucked in tight.
Perfect.
Sweet dreams, my girl.
En route to my room, I cross the threshold and close my door nearly all the way. Just leaving a few inches open so I can hear Maise.
Yawning, I cross the room to my side of the bed, the window side.
Celeste is still reading, her body relaxed against the headboard, her chest . . .
Holy shit.
My mouth goes dry instantly.
We may be dozens of feet apart, but there is no mistaking her hand as it travels the rounds of her chest. Her lips part as her head falls back. My shins hit the window seat, hands gripping the window frame as the air in my lungs turns to ash at the sight.
A beat later that same hand disappears into her pajama pants, and I swear I hear the moan through both sets of double-paned glass and across the distance between us.
Every inch of me wakes up as I watch her unravel.
Goddamn it.