Chapter 7
[Trinity]
My mother’s advice had been to nap when Mirabelle napped.
Contact naps, especially, were vital in helping build a bond between mother and child.
With Mirabelle in my arms, I lean into the corner of the couch, legs outstretched toward the opposite end, and stamp a kiss against her sweet head.
Her awake time hadn’t been more than an hour before she was dozing again.
Snuggling her in my arms, I stare down at her, cataloging all her features.
Her round cheeks, skin softer than anything I’ve ever felt.
Her eyes closed, barely-there eyelashes.
The faint hint of an angel kiss between her tiny brows.
Her lips move in that instinctual motion, sucking even in her dreams. Her nose is like a button.
Gently, I swipe down the little nub, then stroke over her head. The soft spot is still present beneath the downy dust of hair. Her hands are tucked beneath her chin. Her toes are covered in the onesie pajamas she wears. I’ve counted them endlessly. Ten fingers. Ten toes.
I lean forward and inhale her sweet, milky, baby scent.
My throat clogs with emotion. The reality of being her mother hasn’t set in yet. I’m still afraid she could be taken away at any minute. Fear settles next to awe, and the love I already feel for her.
Love, that strange desire to keep her close. Adore her. Protect her.
The emotions are confusing and wonderful.
What had me additionally puzzled, though, was the sudden reappearance of Dart. In Rogue River. In my house.
What was he doing here? Why did he suddenly care about the roof? How could his eyes express concern for me? After three years, an itch irritated my chest, one I didn’t want to acknowledge. The spot had already scabbed, nearly healed, and I knew better than to claw at the wound again.
Yet, here I sit, my mind lost in memories. The purchase of this house. The endless list of things done to improve it. The money suck. The drain on our finances and our energy, and eventually a source of discontent when there weren’t any babies to fill the three extra bedrooms.
I should have sold the place after Dart left, but I didn’t have the heart.
I loved this old house, especially after all the renovations.
The new kitchen. The updated bathrooms. The refinished hardwood floors.
This was my home, and the one thing I’d been grateful for in our divorce was Dart allowing me to keep it.
He gave it to me.
Over time, I made the rooms more my own. The Georgia O’Keeffe poster in the front hallway. The velvety soft, pink couch I lounge on. Throw pillows on my bed with ruffles on the edges. Little touches. Feminine pinches that made this house more mine than ours.
He had no right to say the roof still belonged to him.
The soft swirl of the lock on the front door interrupts my thoughts and brings Dart into the entryway, like my irritation conjured him to appear. He tiptoes down the hallway with two grocery sacks in one hand.
“What are you doing?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
He jolts, not having noticed me.
“Hey,” he whispers, his gaze falling to Mirabelle on my chest.
I swing my legs off the couch and slowly attempt to stand, which prompts Dart to rush forward, setting the grocery bags on the low table and extending his hands to assist me.
“I’m good,” I snap, not wanting his help, his touch.
The crackling sensation that rippled down my arm last night reminded me of how long it’s been since someone else has touched me, and how it shouldn’t be him who ignites such a flare on my flesh.
He stills his hands, suspended in the air. His eyes are contrite. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I wasn’t sleeping anyway,” I admit, a sigh of exhaustion follows. “I should probably set her down and make myself something to eat.”
Dart lowers his hands, rubbing them against his thighs while his brows pinch. “Why isn’t her dad here, helping you?”
“I don’t know her father.” The truth is the truth, but he isn’t privy to it yet.
Dart’s mouth falls open, and he takes a step back. Air escapes his body like he’s been punched in the gut. Then, he clamps his lips and narrows his eyes. “What do you mean you don’t know her father?”
“I mean . . . I don’t know who her father is.”
His hands curl into fists at his side. “Jesus fuck.” He swipes a hand through his hair and spins away from me, exhaling deeply again.
He sets both hands on the nape of his neck and tips his head back, blowing out another breath.
Then he pivots, causing me to flinch at how quickly we face one another again.
“Just rip the bandage off, Trinity. How many guys have you slept with?” The depth of pain mingled with his question sounds as if I’ve shaved off a pound of his flesh.
My mouth gapes, lower lip hung in disbelief. He has no right to ask. No right to be hurt.
“What the hell? It’s none of your business who I’ve slept with or how many,” I argue, not knowing why I’m even suggesting there has been anyone else in three years.
Three long, drought-filled years of no physical contact with another man.
No emotional connection either, even with a handful of worthless dates and one failed kiss.
He’s probably had tons of women in his absence, and the backs of my eyes burn with a thought I’ve tried so hard not to consider.
The pit lizards who’d love a swipe at someone as delectable as him.
The casual female acquaintances within the crew.
The worst was the idea of someone random and meaningless.
My stomach twisted in knots.
It had taken a long time to rid my imagination of him with someone else, even when his original messages tried to assure me there was no one.
Only me. In his heart. In his thoughts.
That time turned to years of vacancy, and Dart was a sexual man. Touch was his love language. He craved it, he gave it. Once upon a time, he acted as if he needed it for confirmation that I was present. I was physically there with him, beside him.
Until . . . he left.
An action that so stunned me, based on his past and his fears.
As he glares at me, something etched in the lines around his eyes emphasizes them. Makes the burnt-orange and gold streaks flare like a flame.
Was he jealous?
“Her father should be here,” he fumes, angered on her behalf. As if he has a right to care about Mirabelle. Care about me.
My tongue wants to lash at him. My teeth hold back an accusation: Her father left me. But Dart has no claim to Mirabelle.
I push a different topic. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought you could use some lunch.” He glances at the bags on the low table, running his hands nervously over his thighs again before slipping them into his pockets.
“I mean in Rogue River.” Exasperation cannot be contained. “In this house. How did you even get in here in the first place?” Let alone the second time.
“The code is our wedding anniversary.” The corner of his mouth tweaks upward. A sheepish smile on the way to smugness.
“In reverse,” I snip, shocked he remembers the date.
Then again, flowers arrive each year as a painful reminder of what had been lost. The bouquet was the same one I’d carried on our wedding day.
The bundle of daisies with a yellow ribbon around the stems should have meant love and patience.
The arrangement was not the average collection found in a floral shop.
They often looked hand-picked, which would be impossible.
Instead of tossing the gift in the garbage each year, I’d take the flowers to a new mom who was separated from her child in the NICU. Brightening her day when mine had been soured.
Dart didn’t need to be so cruel.
“I’ll change the code,” I mutter, considering how clever he is.
He chuckles, like I’m joking, and reaches for the two sacks. “Let me make you lunch.”
“You haven’t answered the rest of my questions. Rogue River?” I quip. “My house?”
Dart sighs, lowering his head and shaking it once. “Lunch. And I’ll explain everything.”
“I’m not hungry.” But my stomach betrays me when an obnoxious grumble rolls through my belly.
He gently grins at the rumble in my tummy, reminding me of how his smile was often a reward. He was a playful man, and he made me giggle, but it was rare that I’d make him smile first.
“You’re a terrible liar.” The grin lazily curls deeper, hooking upward higher on one side than the other. His amber eyes sparkle like warm liquid over ice.
“Yeah. The last thing I am is a liar.” My emphasis hits a mark, and his smile fades.
“Yeah,” he counters. “That’s why I’m here. To give you some truths.”