Chapter 2
On a normal day, I was about the last person to admit when I was wrong.
It didn’t happen often—being wrong, that is—and I certainly wasn’t about to admit it.
But the pop echoing down the hall as I tried to tug the too-heavy plastic tote toward the stairs made it hard to deny that, right now, I was very wrong.
Or, at least, partially wrong.
I was right that all my belongings fit into four large plastic totes, ready to pack into the car I rented for tomorrow’s move from Linwood to Denver.
What I had miscalculated, though, was how heavy those four totes would be…
The plastic screeched across the wooden floors as I tried to pull the last one closer to the stairs, protesting every inch of movement. I bent at the waist, putting my back into it, and gave a little victory cry as I made it closer to my destination.
Of course, that was when the handle broke off, sending me flying onto my ass.
And, of course, that was when Beckett Conway, my longtime family friend-ish and current employer, walked up the stairs.
“Don’t—”
“Need help with that?” Beckett’s nose twitched as he fought back a grin. “Looks a little heavy.”
I glared up at him from my seat on the floor, the yellow handle still in my palm. “Nope.”
As if taunting me, the tote gave another groan. We both watched the crack that was originally near the handle spread rapidly down the side.
Beckett pointed at it, his dark brow furrowing under his backward hat. “That looks—”
“I said I’m good.” I got to my feet and brushed myself off. “And I do not want help.”
“Wanting and needing are two totally separate things. How are you getting that down the stairs?”
“Same way I got the other three down.” My voice sounded more like a grunt as I stood behind the crate and pushed instead of pulled this time. “With grit, determination, and some very colorful language.”
I shoved harder, and the tote responded by making a noise that sounded suspiciously like a dying whale as it slid across the floor.
“See?” I panted. “Progress.”
“That wasn’t a progress noise.”
“But it moved.”
Beckett folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall while I dug in and pushed again. The tote scraped forward another few inches, protesting the entire time. Honestly, I respected its commitment to the bit.
By the time I reached the end of the hall, I was sweating, breathing hard, and actively reconsidering every life choice that led me to this moment. I braced one foot against the railing and wrestled the tote into position until it finally landed with a heavy thunk at the top of the stairs.
“There,” I declared.
Beckett looked from me to the tote. “To be clear, that’s not down the stairs.”
“It’s at the stairs.”
“Was that the goal?”
“It is now.”
He laughed, then moved to help me right as the sound of a car tearing up the gravel drive drew our attention outside.
Lori Conway’s house was several miles outside of Linwood, nestled against the Gore Range mountains.
We didn’t get many visitors aside from Beckett, his fiancée Emmy, and her son Jace.
“Do you know that car?” I asked, brow furrowing the closer the silver SUV got.
“Don’t think so. You?”
I shrugged, trying to recall if I’d seen it before.
Since tomorrow was my last day as Lori’s in-home caretaker, I knew Beckett had hired someone to help with his mom.
The idea of strangers hanging out every day with Lori instead of me sat like a lead weight in my chest, but I hadn’t worked this hard for a master’s degree in speech pathology to walk away when my clinical fellowship year began.
I opened my mouth to ask if he was going to check, but Beckett cursed under his breath and hopped down the steps two at a time.
I frowned, looking back at the car that was now parking outside, trying to make out the driver and why Beckett yanked open the door and shoved his feet into a pair of unlaced boots, in a hurry to see whoever had parked outside.
A lifetime of trauma and an active imagination had me picturing every worst-case scenario when the car came to a halt. But nothing prepared me for the sight of Mikko Laaksonen climbing out of the car before the dust from the gravel drive had even settled.
My back went ramrod straight, staring at the man I hadn’t seen in months. He was tall enough to dwarf the SUV door, broad shoulders tense beneath a grey tee, a dark blue hat covering most of his features. But I didn’t need to see him clearer to fill in the blanks.
Dark blond hair shaved close to his head, except where it was long enough to imagine running my hands through the top.
Ice-blue eyes, as still as a glacier in the Arctic Circle, and hiding as much power.
Muscle-corded arms, flexed as he put himself between me and my father last winter.
Protecting a woman he’d literally just met.
I hated that he was such a permanent fixture in my mind.
Hated that I thought of him almost daily.
And I hated that he was here, when he was supposed to be lacing up for morning skate in Denver, two and a half hours away.
Not that I kept track.
Hockey was not my thing.
I also hated that somehow I was plastered against the glass window, scrambling for the latch to open it so I could overhear whatever Beckett and Mikko said.
“Open, dammit,” I muttered as I yanked on the sash, to no avail. I kept yanking, hoping it would give enough to let me hear their conversation as Beckett followed his former teammate around the car to the back passenger door.
By the third try, I gave up, then crawled over the bin blocking the stairs, nudging it a little over the lip. On quiet feet, I tiptoed down into the living room for a better view.
Snow-tipped mountains framed us on all sides, the last of fall fading into winter in the Vail Valley.
The pond behind the house rippled in the wind; string lights hung from poles around the would-be outdoor rink.
Everything was peaceful until Mikko opened the car door and I heard the faint sound of a child crying.
“It's too windy,” Lori said from behind me. “You won’t be able to hear anything from there.”
I jerked upright, spinning to look at Beckett’s mom reclining on the couch before her physical therapy appointment. She smirked, enjoying that she’d caught me red-handed. “I figured you might like a little air in here. It feels stale, doesn’t it?”
She lifted a shaking hand, pointing at the foyer. “Must be why Beckett left the door open then. My careless boy.”
The wind moved through the open foyer, lifting the pages of a magazine on the entry table, proving her point.
“Don’t let anybody tell you that you’re not a girl’s girl, Lori.” I tapped my temple, then hurried toward the front door, crouching below the windows to hide the fact that I was absolutely snooping on their conversation.
The moment I put my face in the crack between the door and jamb sharp wails carried across the quiet yard. A second later, Mikko leaned into the SUV and lifted a tiny girl out of a car seat, her legs kicking in outrage.
My heart ached for her, but she stopped crying the second she settled against his chest.
I could see Mikko’s mouth moving, but the wind was carrying his voice in the opposite direction.
When she squirmed again, he pulled the dark blue baseball cap from his own head and settled it over her wispy blond hair to block the late afternoon sun from her eyes.
The hat swallowed half her face, making her look impossibly small in his arms.
Now that I could see his face, Mikko looked exhausted.
Dark circles shadowed beneath pale blue eyes that used to carry a laid-back, cocky confidence.
His blond hair was longer since the last time I’d seen him, and there was stubble lining his jaw too.
I wish any of it made him less attractive, but the way he bounced on his toes, patting his daughter’s back was endearing.
What was it about a big man with a little kid that made my ovaries power up?
Sure, eavesdropping was invading his privacy. Maybe even objectively wrong. But Mikko had shoved his way into my life last February, so I was a little entitled to do the same, right?
Eight months ago, my car died outside the Pilates studio in town, and Beckett had offered me a ride home after finding me one minor inconvenience away from a full mental breakdown. Two of his teammates I’d never met were with him, Mikko included.
It should’ve been a simple ride home.
Instead, it had ended with Mikko nearly putting his fist through my drunken father’s face.
Ever since that night, some traitorous part of me clung to him, like he’d carved himself into a space under my skin I couldn’t evict him from.
Then this summer, Mikko was here when our lives shifted again. One phone call. One stunned expression. One abrupt flight to Finland after Mikko announced to a very confused group of people that, apparently, he had a daughter.
Why we kept running into each other at these major turning points in our lives was beyond me, but I couldn’t look away.
Couldn’t keep myself from wondering what other curveballs had led to Mikko standing in Beckett’s driveway with a toddler clinging to his chest while he looked exhausted enough to collapse.
His daughter cried again, and he turned her away from the sun even more. Unfortunately, that left me looking at his back, and now I couldn’t even read his lips.
Fuck it, curiosity outranked morals by a landslide.
I pulled the door open further, sneaking out onto the front porch.
Luckily for me, the evergreen shrubs along the front of the house mostly hid me but didn’t block the sound of their conversation.
I crouched down low, with only the top of my head showing above the hedge, but still able to hear them crystal clear.
“I can’t do this, Beckett,” Mikko said, his voice sounding wrecked. “Not like this.”
White hot rage flared through me, so potent it barely felt rational. My fingernails dug into the wooden railing, trying and failing to ground myself in this moment. But how could I, when the this he was talking about wasn’t a thing he could walk away from?
It was a child.
Of all the despicable things a person could do, walking away from a child was number one in my book. Maybe that was my trauma talking, but life had taught me that people were selfish to their core. As much as I hated being wrong, I detested being right.
He didn’t ask for a kid. Didn’t even know he had one until a few months ago.
But knowing this little girl’s mom had walked away from her was one thing. Deciding he could do it too?
Hell. No.
“You’re not making sense, Mikko. Tell me what happened,” Beckett said, but I barely heard him through the anger pulsing inside me.
I was about to storm down the porch steps, ready to give both men a piece of my mind, when Mikko’s hat slid to the ground and little grey-blue eyes caught mine.
I froze, my heart hammering as her gaze locked with mine.
She didn’t lift her head from Mikko’s shoulder, her fists still clenched in the fabric of his shirt, but she watched me with quiet curiosity.
“I made a mistake.” Mikko’s voice faded into the distance as I took in the cutest toddler I’d ever seen. “I don’t even know why I said yes.”
“Tell me what happened,” Beckett repeated, doing his best to calm his friend. “I can’t help you if I don’t understand what’s going on.”
Mikko paced in the driveway, his big hand rubbing over his daughter’s back, but her attention stayed locked on me. I took in every freckle dotting her little nose, every curl at the tips of her pale blonde hair. She looked like the most innocent angel, and she deserved absolutely none of this.
I waved my fingers, letting her know I saw her too. The men kept talking, but I focused on her, making sure she felt my attention. Knew I saw her as the true gift she was.
When Mikko changed directions, she moved her head so she could still see me, and I grinned at her, then ducked beneath the shrub, hiding my face.
I could still see her through the leaves, and she lifted her head, focused on where I was.
When I peeked above the hedges in a game of hide and seek, she flashed a toothy grin.
The third time I repeated the move, a delighted shriek pierced the air, and she clapped her hands together.
I laughed with her, the anger from moments ago evaporating into thin air.
Right until Mikko stopped pacing and looked up at what held his daughter’s attention, catching me crouching on the front porch.
I had approximately two seconds to decide between playing it cool or making a run for it.
Fate chose for me, because the bin I’d shoved partially over the top of the stairs chose that moment to lose its battle with gravity.
The crack of plastic splitting was the only warning I got.
One sharp, decisive snap and then the whole front face of the tote gave way.
I didn’t have time to turn around before the sound hit me: the roar as an avalanche of romance novels cascaded down the staircase, picking up speed with every step.
They hit the foyer floor like a wave breaking and then kept on coming—straight through the open front door and onto the porch around my feet.
I didn’t move.
The novels fanned out across the porch in every direction, some skidding to the edge of the steps, one brave paperback making it to the bottom stair.
Bare chest.
Billowing white shirt.
One particularly enthusiastic cover model ripping his costar’s corset down the front.
As if that wasn’t humiliating enough, then the clothes came.
I’d shoved them between the books to save space, which had seemed efficient at the time and now seemed like the single worst decision of my adult life.
Two band tees.
A black dress I’d never worn.
And then a pair of red lace panties that caught the breeze rolled through the open door like a tiny, devastating sail.
They landed on the shrubs right in front of my face, practically a flashing arrow pointing toward where I still crouched behind the bushes.
I went still, like maybe if I didn’t move, the universe would take mercy on me and rewind the last thirty seconds.
I was never that lucky.
The silence afterward was deafening, not even the wind daring to make a sound. I crouched among the wreckage and slowly raised my eyes to everyone at the bottom of the porch steps.
Beckett had a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking.
The little girl was completely still against Mikko’s chest, her wide eyes taking it all in.
Mikko’s gaze bounced between the novels, my clothes, and my face, not sure where to look. And who could blame him?
The heat crawling up my neck was nothing short of catastrophic, but I released a slow breath, stood up with my chin raised, and met his gaze with every ounce of dignity I had left.
“They’re not mine.”