Chapter 14
[Trinity]
Ihesitate. A boulder on my chest while looking at Dart with Mirabelle.
The way he holds her with confidence, like he’s a natural at being a dad. His large hands cup her head. His forearm creates a ledge for her bottom. She tucks into him. Her head rests near his heartbeat. Maybe she senses his strength. Maybe she’s thinking, I’m safe here.
He presses a soft kiss to her downy hair, murmuring something so quietly I don’t hear it despite the silence around us. His eyes briefly close as if the kiss is an instinct. A reassurance she is safe with him.
Looking at them is a twisty-turny reminder of all we wanted together and all we never had. The longing for something so precious as Mirabelle.
And here she is.
Earlier, I almost didn’t feel worthy of the impromptu shower from my friends, realizing I haven’t shared Mirabelle with others because I can’t shake the sliver of fear that she’ll be taken from me. That her appearance is all a dream.
But watching Dart hold Mirabelle, like he’d chase away nightmares and battle any demons, I can’t help picturing him in her future. In our future.
That boulder presses harder.
This right here is the forever we could have had, should have had.
And he looks so good with his backward baseball cap on his head and the low-slung fit of his sweatpants, which accentuate his—
“Trin.” He whispers my name in a way I’ve heard a thousand times. Low and deep, seductive and rich even when he’s not trying to seduce me. “Just go, baby.”
My mouth opens, intending to argue, but something in the way he runs his bristly cheek against Mirabelle’s head gives me pause. Like he needs this moment with her, even if I don’t want him forming any ideas. Mirabelle is mine.
Would he like to share her with me?
The thought has me standing straighter and shaking my head. I will not allow myself to get ideas either. That picture of our future dissipates.
“I guess I could use a little more rest,” I admit over the grogginess in my throat from lack of sleep. A dull ache weighs down my limbs.
He nods, closing his eyes as he sways with Mirabelle, humming a tune near her ear.
I slip through the door and return to my bed, only to find I can’t sleep. Not with images of him cuddling Mirabelle. Singing to her. Soothing her.
He would have been the best father. He’d been such a good man, until . . .
My eyes cloud, and I blink away the tears.
Let’s just give ourselves a break.
He might have meant a break from baby making. I took it as he wanted a break from us. Sex had turned mechanical. Functional instead of intimate. His resentment was present in the way he performed. And I hated how I felt like I was using him.
We’d lost the thunder between us. The strike of lightning. The merest spark was gone by the time he left.
Yet a new flame flickers inside me when I watch him holding Mirabelle.
A candle in a window as a sign of longing, of waiting, of hope.
I don’t dare hope for more from Dart, other than giving me an hour of rest.
One I don’t get thanks to the visions in my head of him dancing with Mirabelle, acting like he’d be the perfect dad.
Three days later, Dart is in the kitchen. The strong scent of bacon sizzling in a pan fills the air.
For the past three nights, he’s collected Mirabelle in the middle of the night, allowing me to catch up on some sleep. With the much-needed rest, I feel clearer lately, more sensible.
No more visions of Dart being Mirabelle’s dad. I’m grateful for his help, but I’m back to thinking he’ll be gone like the wind soon enough.
Still, I can’t seem to help admire the strength in his back as he stands shirtless, another pair of sweats dangling on his hips, and Mirabelle in his arms.
Just . . . fuck . . . those black sweatpants and a baby in his arms. He’s got hot dad vibes happening here, and I quickly glance away from him before he spins to face me.
“Good morning,” he says. Then, he takes Mirabelle’s little arm and waves it at me.
“Morning.” I chuckle before asking him the same question I’ve asked each night over the weekend. “Did you get any sleep?”
Mirabelle should sleep in a bassinet near the foot of my bed, but during the middle of the night wakeups, Dart takes her out of the room. Sometimes, she’s back in the bassinet by morning. Other times, I hear Dart take her downstairs or down the hall to his room.
“Did you?” he counters. His eyes look tired but bright and wild. The man can exist on coffee and four hours of sleep.
“Yeah,” I whisper with gratitude. “Thanks again for that.” He doesn’t have to keep waking in the middle of the night to feed Mirabelle or comfort her, but I truly am grateful for his help right now.
“Did she eat?” I keep a chart on the refrigerator, neurotically marking each time she takes a bottle and how much she drinks.
“Fed her at three a.m. Marked it on the schedule.”
For a second, I’m reminded of a different schedule we kept.
A calendar of sorts. Penciling in sex with him.
My stomach pitches at the reminder of how hard I pressed him, knowing he’d give me anything I wanted.
How the moments I tried to seduce him became unseductive.
How less intimate every attempt to get pregnant became.
I stare at his scribbled handwriting that fills a line on the chart.
“Here,” he says. “I need to flip the bacon.” He steps closer to me, almost charging into my space, and while I’m eager to take Mirabelle from him, I’m also hyper aware of his closeness.
The scent of pine and asphalt rushes up my nostrils. His bare skin overwhelming and present.
With Mirabelle in her scrunched body position, like a ball of bliss, Dart tips toward me, and I reach out for her, slipping my hand between Mirabelle and him.
Only, the back of my hand brushes over that firm chest, and sparks crackle and burn up my skin.
I glance up at Dart. His face is close. His eyes wide and focused on mine.
Slipping Mirabelle from him, it feels like I’m moving in slow motion as I bring her to my chest, but don’t step away from him. Her little body is the only thing separating us.
I’m very aware that I’m still wearing my nightgown.
The silky chemise, one of three, that I bought myself long after Dart left as a reminder that I’m sexy on my own.
I not only deserve underwear that empowers me, like a matching set of lacy panties and bra, but I can have nightwear that makes me feel bold and strong, even though I sleep alone.
And right now, that silky material feels almost too warm, too sensitive against my skin.
Dart’s gaze drops to my lips, and I press mine to Mirabelle’s head without breaking eye contact with him. The instinct to kiss her is too great. The need to tuck her close to me, almost as a shield . . . against him.
“She’s so good,” Dart says, his voice full of awe while he stares back at me.
I inhale Mirabelle, attempting to right my senses with her baby-fresh wash, but find she smells like him. From being pressed against that bare chest, near his heartbeat, held in his arms, and—
A hard knock comes to my front door.
Both Dart’s and my eyes widen, startled out of the moment, and then sinking into the surprise of a visitor.
“Expecting someone?” Dart arches a brow.
“No.” My gaze remains on him. “Are you?” I have no idea who knows he’s here with me. Obviously, my mother and my friends, and the guys on his baseball team.
The other night, I received a text from Tate.
We need to talk.
Admittedly, Tate and I aren’t close. He’s always been a wild card in the family.
But every once in a while, he’ll play protective older brother.
Dart is one area of concern where Tate steps up.
He knows how much I loved his best friend and how much it crushed me that Dart left.
The thing about Tate is he’s loyal to the people he loves.
That shovel joke Halle mentioned, Tate would do the same and not even blink.
Stepping away from Dart, I check the doorbell monitor I keep on the kitchen counter. Then, I glance back at Dart, wide-eyed and a bit panic-stricken.
“What?” he whispers, leaning toward me, with concern. His hands come to my bare arms, but I don’t have time to register the touch.
“Put a shirt on,” I whisper, a tremor in my voice, like the person outside the door can hear us, despite the wood barrier being yards away. “I’ll get the door.”
With Mirabelle in my arms, I brush past Dart and head for the front door, opening it to the social worker assigned to my adoption case. Stone Sylver, in his sheriff’s uniform, is beside her.
My heart plummets to the floor. I’ve had nightmares of them coming to reclaim Mirabelle, telling me there’s been a mistake, and her biological mother wants her back.
However, Cassidy Lane is smiling at me while Stone offers his own stoic smirk.
“Mornin’,” he greets me.
“Good morning. It’s early for a visit, Sheriff,” I tease, despite the tension in my shoulders. I hold Mirabelle even tighter, like they’re going to reach out and snatch her from me.
“Spot check,” Cassidy states, adding a warm smile. “And some news.”
The relief in those words doesn’t register just yet. My heart is racing too hard.
I step back, waving them both inside, when Dart suddenly appears wearing a white T-shirt that looks like sin on him.
Stone’s brows lift. His head turns from Dart to me and back. “Dart?”
“Hey.” Dart steps forward, offering a hand to Stone. Growing up, Stone’s brother Judd attended school with Dart, Tate, and the rest of the star gang, but Judd was never friends with them. He was quiet and reserved back then and hung mostly by himself.
I have a theory about why Tate and Judd never got along, but discussing our brothers is not the reason Stone and Cassidy are present.
“Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?” I offer, leading them into the living room, attempting to keep my voice steady despite the quiver in my limbs.