Chapter 13 Willow #2
I sweep the dust off the top of the piano mid-song.
It’s not often I get to play during the day.
But the house is quiet. Clean. And now—dustless.
And the view is unparalleled, pulling me under some Blue River spell.
As if this town, and everything in it, is magical.
My fingers keep moving across the piano keys—steady and sure.
Grandma would be proud if she saw me now.
She used to watch my eyes, making sure I only glanced down every so often, keeping my eyes on the pages of the song instead, or closed when it felt right with the song.
Something about this view makes me rethink a windowless in-home recording studio—one I’ve kept outlined in my head for the last two years.
Windows or glass doors usually let in unwanted noise from outside, but if I had a view half as remarkable as this one, I’d figure out a way.
Heck, if I could afford it, I’d keep a piano in the living room to write music and another one in the studio to record.
It makes my chest open up, the notes and words pouring out. Like I’m singing to more than just a roomful of patrons, or the sticky stain on top of the instrument from some thoughtless guest. It’s almost a reminder to keep that big picture in mind. Not check the time for when my set is over.
I release a breath and let my fingers rest for a moment.
Other than a few texts from Dallas earlier, I haven’t heard from him.
But I know he’s been home. Because at some point—either while I was out with Rose in the morning or with Wes when he picked me up for lunch—several packages were brought into the house. Including the mattresses for the guest rooms.
I once again slept in Dallas’s bed last night—brand-new space heater and all. And I did not spend the night debating if I should go down for a cup of tea.
The man is officially my employer. I shouldn’t be thinking about his abs—or the V-shape lines that dip out of sight beneath his jeans.
I need to focus on the point of this whole thing. And it’s not “to test my willpower.”
It’s to keep Ellie where she belongs.
With Dallas.
He’s nervous about Cole. I’m nervous about Cole. Ellie’s too excited to have this all taken away. It wouldn’t be fair.
It wouldn’t be right.
She trusts Dallas. And as much as it would be out of his control—he’ll lose that trust if he lets this happen.
If we let it happen. I’m here to help him keep his daughter. Nothing else. No matter what.
Even if his texts do make my stomach flip for no apparent reason.
Dallas: What do you like?
Willow: A bit forward, but all right. Fragrant baths, limes, the occasional chili pepper, strong coffee and extra shots of tequila.
Dallas: Let me rephrase. I’m at the grocery store.
Willow: Oh. My original list stands.
Dallas: Spicy tofu that makes your eyes burn it is, then.
Willow: Chicken, lots of greens, kale maybe? Watermelon.
Dallas: You call that a list?
Willow: And items two, three and four above.
Dallas: ??
Dallas: How about wine?
Willow: Red.
I twist my emerald ring and play for a few more minutes, shifting to another song, letting the familiar tune calm me in a way I didn’t know I needed.
My stomach has been in knots all day, ever since my morning with Ellie. And I can’t quite pinpoint why. I can’t be nervous about the nanny thing, right?
I mean, it’s one thing to bring the girl her slippers and make her laugh, but I should be doing more, thinking of more. Do I need to stay on top of her mental health? Should I be asking about her favorite foods? Starting a recipe book that excludes all allergies?
This isn’t babysitting, after all. There are . . . expectations.
I’m spiraling again, so I take a breath. Must be the conversation I had with Mom earlier. She always did know how to put a dampener on anything new or good in my life.
And this is good.
Or maybe it’s Cole’s visit stressing me out. And the damage he’d be doing, not just to Dallas for having to fight for a kid that’s biologically his, but also to Ellie.
She doesn’t need this.
I sure hope Dallas’s instincts were right. This’ll blow over.
The front doorknob twists and my fingers hop off the keys.
Dallas walks in, eyes sweeping over me once. He’s in a black T-shirt, biceps straining against the sleeves, arms so solid and tanned, they look carved out of stone. I attempt to look away but my gaze only travels down to his jeans . . . low on his hips and worn in all the right places.
Good heavens, does he keep getting better-looking or have I just been in dreamland too long?
“Hey.” His eyes drop to where my fingers hover above the keys.
“Where’s Ellie?” I ask, panicking a bit because he did say he was picking her up, didn’t he?
He blinks, seeming slightly out of it. “Uh, Rose has a painting class at the cottage on Mondays and Thursdays. Ellie likes to go.”
“Oh right,” I breathe. “Rose’s class.”
He props the door open with a stopper and brings in bags of groceries.
“Need some help?” I push off the bench and head to the porch, where I watch him lift three bags and carry them toward the kitchen.
“I did,” he grunts. “Not anymore.”
I lift the last one up and follow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“List you gave me was pathetic.” He takes mine from me. “How do you not know what you need?”
“Well, you know I was here all day, did you think to maybe ask me to come with you?” I help him unload groceries onto the counter.
“Fine. The three of us can go shopping again later this week. Ellie isn’t all that helpful either—always remembers what she wanted after I get back,” he mutters, setting his hands on the counter and blowing a breath. “Sometimes I wonder if she’s testing me—to see if I’d know without her asking.”
Damn if that doesn’t pull something in me.
Because I get it. I was just there a few minutes ago.
I should be freaking out that neither one of us knows what the hell we’re doing.
But right now, I want to comfort him. To reassure him that as long as he’s feeling this way—he’s giving her everything she needs.
I wonder if the same rule applies to paid help.
I rest my elbows on the counter beside him. “Or,” I start, with a murmur, “she might just still be pretty shy.”
“Nonsense. She’s been living with me for three months. I’m her father.”
“For the last three months,” I remind him. “It’s possible she didn’t get to ask for certain foods at her grandparents’. Maybe she just ate what they ate—she may still be getting used to having a choice, Dallas.”
He straightens, eyeing me like I’m actually making sense. “Thought she was just being difficult.”
My chest gives a little tug of defeat. I think it’s the touch of vulnerability in his voice. I release a breath. “I’m not going to pretend to know much about kids, but I don’t think she’s being difficult at all. I think she’s trying to be as easy as she can to make this work.”
He frowns.
“She wants this as much as you do, Dallas.” I spell it out.
“How can you tell?”
“By the look on her face when she told me she’s moving in here with you.
” I shrug. “And the fact that she loses slippers in your room. It’s a comfort thing.
” I used to do the same at Grandma’s house—leave little bits of myself behind.
A book, a hair tie, an occasional sock. It wasn’t me being sloppy or careless.
It was just home to me. Comfortable. Safe.
He watches me like I really am strange. But seems to accept what I’m saying, dragging a hand over his jaw. “Maybe you’re right. I’ve convinced myself that I’m going to be getting it all wrong.”
My stomach flips at his honesty. And I want to tell him something that’s both comforting—and just as painfully honest.
I touch his arm lightly—but there’s nothing light about it. It sends another current through me—starting at my fingertips and traveling all the way down to my toes. And it’s almost as if he feels what that did to me, if his scowl at my touch has anything to say about it.
But I’m starting to be less fooled by his scowls. Especially when he’s opening up about his insecurities about being a father. OK, opening up is a bit generous. Letting me drag it out of him is probably more what’s happening here.
“You’ve done more for this girl in four days than I’ll see in a lifetime.”
His gaze darkens, a crease etching between his brows as he studies me.
I pull back. “Why don’t I . . . make that list—for both of us—and then we can take her back to the grocery store and ask if there’s anything else she’d want.”
There’s a beat before he blinks away, nodding like it’s a step in the right direction. “OK.”
I glance around, feeling like I could be doing more than just standing around pretending to know what he’s going through. “And look, I tried to tidy up here, but everything’s pretty much—”
“You don’t have to clean, Willow.” He catches my gaze, eyes and voice raw with exhaustion. “You’re already doing more than you know just by being here.”
“I’m pretty sure I’d go crazy if I don’t do something.”
He rubs the back of his neck, glancing past me toward the living room. “Maybe you could . . . teach Ellie to play? She’s wanted to learn.”
I smile. “Already planned on it.”
His eyes linger on my face, that thread of tenderness making its scarce appearance. Or maybe it’s the fatigue. “It sounded nice. Whatever that was. Heard it through the door.”
I blink, fighting a strange urge to tuck my hair behind my ear like I’ve never received a compliment before.
“It was my grandmother’s favorite. She’d always ask me to play it for her.
Actually, she taught it to me. It was all she knew, but it was how I started playing.
It’s not good, but she taught me the beginner version, so . . . I kind of kept with it.”
He watches me. There’s no nostalgic smile, no imagination in those eyes—the way you’d figure someone might get when you share something like that. His eyes are more . . . quietly uncertain.