Chapter 9
H e stood on the rooftop patio and watched the limo’s taillights until they disappeared around the curve of the service road.
Then he turned back to the champagne and the strawberries and the carefully folded slips of paper in the bag, and he took a moment to simply be annoyed.
Not at Nikki. At the situation. At the bad timing.
At whatever disgruntled Greystone ex-employee had chosen tonight, of all nights, to plant malicious code in a client’s system.
He allowed himself approximately thirty seconds of that. Then he picked up the champagne, poured a glass, and drank it as he looked out at the Pacific.
He’d offered to go with her, but she’d said no.
And she’d been right to. This was her crisis, her client, her business—and he understood why that mattered to her.
The last thing she needed was Damien Stark showing up at Fairchild Development in the middle of the night like a rescue operation. He understood that. He respected it.
He also knew that if he’d pushed, she’d have let him help—and later, she would have resented it. And rightfully so.
Now, he finished the champagne alone, then covered the strawberries and turned off the lights on the rooftop. He’d have someone come collect the rest in the morning. Then he walked up the service road toward the main house, his hands in his pockets, the roar of the ocean behind him.
The house was quiet when he let himself in.
Bree had left a light on in the kitchen and a note on the counter: Girls went down easy.
Anne had a bottle at nine. Sunshine is in with Lara.
He folded the note and set it aside, then stood for a moment in the kitchen, enjoying that particular kind of silence that only existed in a house with sleeping children.
He’d noticed it the first night they’d brought Lara home—this sense that even the air understood that something precious was resting nearby.
He went to check on Anne first, then smiled when he found her on her back in the bassinet, arms flung wide in the way she always slept—as if telling the world that she was not just fearless, but completely unfamiliar with the concept.
It was a quality he hoped she never lost. Brave enough to be fearless, but still smart enough to avoid danger.
As he stood there in the dim light watching the rise and fall of her chest, a wave of something complicated swept over him.
Gratitude that this sweet, healthy girl was his daughter, yes, but more than that, too.
Something quieter, anchored in the memory of Nikki’s face when the doctor had first put Anne in her arms. How she’d looked at him over the top of their daughter’s head and simply said, “Oh.”
Just that. Oh. As if the word contained everything.
He kissed his fingertips, then brushed them lightly over her forehead before slipping quietly from the room toward his next destination.
The small nightlight in Lara’s room cast a warm glow across the yellow walls. Sunshine was in the armchair, one eye cracked open as Damien appeared in the doorway. Apparently deciding he wasn’t a threat, the eye closed again as Damien crossed the room to the toddler bed.
Lara was on her side, Kitty tucked under her chin, her small mouth open. Her dark hair was fanned across the pillow, and one foot had escaped the blanket. He crossed the room quietly and tucked it back in.
She’d been twenty months old when they’d brought her home, the sweet little girl whose picture had captured both him and Nikki. That first look, and they’d both felt it. The sense that she was theirs. And nothing— nothing —would ever change that.
Some things didn’t require explanation.
He was still crouched there, lost in the memory of their first real sight of her at the orphanage in China, when Lara’s eyes came open.
She blinked at him. Then, recognizing him, she smiled—slow and sleepy, the smile that got him every time.
“Baba,” she said.
“Hey, Snuggles.” He kept his voice low. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”
She considered this information with the gravity that she brought to all important matters. Then she held out her arms.
He picked her up, careful and slow, and settled into the armchair with her against his chest, Sunshine having been displaced to the footstool with an expression of profound affront.
Lara tucked her head under his chin and wound her fingers into the fabric of his shirt.
Her thumb found her mouth. Her breathing began to slow almost immediately.
“Mama?” she said, the word muffled around her thumb.
“Mama’s working,” he said. “She’ll be home soon.”
Lara appeared to find this satisfactory. Her breathing deepened. Her grip on his shirt loosened, then went slack.
He stayed right where he was.
Before Lara, he’d thought he understood what it would be like to be a father.
After all, he’d researched, prepared, anticipated variables.
He’d read all the books recommended on various parenting websites with the same attention he brought to acquisition reports.
He’d practically interrogated Jackson, who’d come into fatherhood sideways, learning about Ronnie when she was already a toddler, and who’d told Damien that nothing would prepare him.
It would just happen. And it would be wonderful.
Jackson had been right.
He’d known the moment he’d held Lara for the first time—her wide eyes searching his face with a seriousness that had nearly undone him—that everything he’d thought he understood about what mattered had just been rearranged. Permanently.
His world, he thought, was exactly as it was meant to be.
Eventually, when he was certain she was deeply asleep, he carried Lara back to her bed and tucked her in. She didn’t stir, and Sunshine reclaimed the armchair with dignity.
With a quick order to the cat to keep watch, Damien slipped from the room, then checked his phone. One text, and it was from Nikki— Deep in it. Don’t wait up.
He smiled at that. Then typed back: Girls are fine. Take your time.
Her reply came immediately— I love you.
I know , he typed. And that, he thought, was still the biggest miracle of his life.