CHAPTER TWENTY
CLARA
CLARA
Normal.
I was trying to get back to normal. Whatever that meant anymore.
We'd been back in the city for two days, and I still felt like I was floating somewhere between Big Sur and reality. Between the woman who'd spent a week in paradise with her husband and daughter, and the woman who'd signed a contract for a business arrangement that was just for show.
The lines were so blurred I couldn't see them anymore.
Nothing was for show anymore. But I felt like I had to keep it that way.
So it was time to go back to our separate lives. Separate homes. I'd insisted on it the night we returned, even though Nash had looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language.
But I'd held firm. I needed space. I needed to think. I needed to figure out how to protect my heart even though it was already too late, because all I wanted was more Nash. We had another major gala event in a couple days, and I knew that outing would send me right back to where we’d been in Big Sur.
So I needed every second until then to reorient and remember what it felt like to be a single mom on her own in New York.
My phone buzzed.
NASH: Missing my girls. Come for dinner tonight.
My stomach flipped. My girls. He kept saying things like that. Romantic. Easy. Like there’d never been a contract between us.
CLARA: Can't tonight. Have to work on the portfolio. Rain check?
NASH: You're avoiding me.
CLARA: I'm not.
NASH: Don’t lie to me.
I stared at my phone, then set it down without responding. I couldn't do this right now. I couldn’t tell him how I really felt, because it seemed wrong, somehow. Catching feelings seemed like a breach of contract.
My phone rang. Nash's name flashed on the screen.
I let it go to voicemail.
Thirty seconds later, it rang again.
"Hi," I said, answering with a sigh.
"Why are you avoiding me?" His voice was gentle but firm.
"I'm not avoiding you. I'm just...adjusting."
"To what?"
"To normal life."
"What are you talking about? This is normal life," Nash said. "We're married, Clara. Husbands and wives see each other. They even live together. You want to stay in a cramped apartment when you could be at the penthouse with actual space?”
"I like my apartment.” I wondered if he could hear how hollow my voice was.
"I'm not saying you shouldn't like it. I'm saying you have options now."
I closed my eyes. "Nash, we started this with boundaries. We’ve been crossing them like crazy with the wedding and the honeymoon and…I need to get back to them. For Mia's sake." And for my own.
Nash was quiet for a few beats. “Then say that next time.”
“What?”
“Don’t give me bullshit excuses about why you can’t come to dinner. I can see through them.”
There was an edge to his voice I hadn’t heard before. It left zero room for discussion, and I could tell I’d hurt him somehow.
“I’m sorry, Nash,” I said quietly. “I’m just, um…” I gnawed my bottom lip, trying to find a different way to say I’m in love with you. I didn’t want to be the business wife who ignored the memo and went straight for head over heels. “I need to remember what it feels like in my world, you know?”
“I don’t want you in that world. I want you in mine.”
My eyes fluttered shut. “Yours is a lot nicer.”
“Then why stay in yours?”
I swallowed a lump in my throat. “Because it’s where I’ll end up at the end of all this, Nash.”
He was quiet for a long time, and I suddenly wished I could look at him and see the emotions playing across his face.
“Says who?” he finally asked.
I let out an incredulous noise. “You! The contract. The…everything.”
Before Nash could respond, my phone beeped with an incoming call. I checked the screen. It was Mia's daycare.
“Shit. Little Sprouts is calling me. I gotta take this.” We traded quick goodbyes, and I switched to the incoming call.
"Hello?" I braced myself for bad news. Sick again, most likely, even though she’d woken up perfectly fine that morning.
"Hi, Ms. Whitehall? This is Jennifer from Little Sprouts. Mia's fine," she said quickly. "But we had an incident. A few minutes ago, a man came to pick up Mia. He said he was her father."
The blood drained from my face. "Preston?"
"Yes. He showed ID with the name Preston Clarke. He was quite insistent that he had the right to pick her up. But since he's not on the authorized pickup list, we didn't release her. I wanted to let you know immediately."
"Oh my God." I stood up, my heart pounding. "Did he—is she okay? Did he see her?"
"She's fine. She was in the back room for art time. He never made it past the front desk. I explained that he needed written authorization from you, and he got upset. He left, but he said he'd be contacting his lawyer."
"His lawyer?" My voice pitched higher.
"I understand this is upsetting, Ms. Whitehall. I've documented the incident so our staff will be aware of the situation and on their guard."
My hands were shaking. "Thank you for not releasing her. Thank you for calling."
My mind was racing. After three years of being the most disinterested father possible, he'd finally shown up. I hadn’t even listed him as her biological father with the daycare, that’s how uninvolved he’d been. I never thought he’d pick her up if I asked, let alone out of the blue like this.
I called Nash back as I rushed out the door. I needed to go pick her up and hold her safe in my arms.
He answered on the first ring. "How is Mia?"
"Preston tried to pick her up from daycare." The words tumbled out. "They didn't let him because he's not on the authorized pickup list, but Nash, he showed up and tried to take her."
"Where are you right now?"
"Going to get her. I'm leaving my apartment now—"
"I'll come get you."
"You don't have to—"
"Clara." His voice was steel. "I'm coming. I’ll be there in ten, and we’ll go together."
"Okay." Relief flooded through me, warm and sticky. Did he know how much his support meant? How this simple act of solidarity made me feel stronger and more capable? “Thank you, Nash."
Nash’s shiny black sedan pulled up to the curb of my apartment building ten minutes later. He got out as soon as the car stopped, striding over with protective energy radiating off him.
"Are you okay?" he asked, pulling me into his arms.
"No. Yes. I don't know." I let him guide me into the back seat of the car. Trojan nodded my way, looking at me through the rearview mirror. Nash held my hand as Trojan pulled into traffic.
“I don’t know what he thinks he’s doing,” I murmured as we drove.
“Trying to establish control.” Nash brought my knuckles to his lips. “And failing.”
The drive to the daycare center was tense, though I knew logically that Mia was safe and Preston was gone for now. Still, his sudden appearance felt like shots fired, and I mulled over every potential response.
When we strode into Little Sprouts, Jennifer met us at the front desk. Her eyes widened slightly at Nash's presence. "Mia's in the playroom. She doesn't know anything happened."
"Thank you,” I said. "I’d prefer to take her home early today. I’m just a little rattled by her biological father showing up."
"I totally understand. Mr. Clarke was quite adamant that you were keeping his daughter from him and he has parental rights. We’ve dealt with non-custodial parents before, and we have very clear policies and procedures for these types of incidents. The child’s safety is always our first priority."
Nash's jaw tightened. "Did he threaten anyone?"
"Not explicitly. But his tone was concerning. I've documented everything."
"Can we add my husband to the authorized pickup list?" I asked suddenly. "Nash Nightingale. I want him to be able to get Mia if I can't."
Jennifer nodded. "Of course. I'll need to see ID and have you fill out a form."
A few minutes later, Nash was officially authorized. It felt significant. Almost more official than the marriage itself. A symbol that he was part of this. Part of us.
So much for the boundaries. Nash was intertwined into every part of my life now.
Jennifer led us back to the three-year-old room to get Mia.
Mia ran to me when she spotted us, her little face bright with excitement. "Mommy! Naff!"
Nash scooped her up when she lifted her arms. "Hey, little dragon. How was your day?"
"Good! I paint a picture. Want to see?"
"Absolutely."
We collected her things, looked at her painting—a chaotic swirl of colors that she insisted was a dragon and needed more time on the drying rack—and headed out.
Mia was a chatterbox the whole way home.
She and Trojan were deep in a conversation about princess movies, which Trojan was fluent in thanks to his girlfriend’s daughter Grace, who was close to Mia’s age.
When we pulled up to my apartment complex, I said, “Why don’t we get the girls together sometime?” I looked over at Nash. His eyes were sparkling, which told me he liked the idea. “Mia would love to meet Grace.”
“I’ll let Maddie know,” Trojan said with a grin. “I think they would have a blast together. We could invite Trace Fairchild’s niece, Willow, and make it a full princess party.”
Nash gave Trojan a list of errands to run before accompanying Mia and me up to the apartment. Once inside, Mia got busy dragging her doll house out into the living room.
“What’s your plan for the rest of the day?” I asked Nash, trying to let go of some of the tension still clinging to me by busying myself in the kitchen.
“Making sure you’re okay.” He leaned against the countertop as I took to washing dishes.
“I’m fine.” I shrugged. “I can’t pretend to know why he showed up today of all days. And it makes me wonder if he’s going to show up here.”
Nash crossed his arms, leveling a serious look my way. "You need to move into the penthouse.”
When I didn’t say anything, he added, “This building doesn't have a doorman. No security. Preston can easily show up at your front door and knock until the door busts open."
"He won't."