34. Garrett
GARRETT
Thursday morning, my words flow onto the page—a mountain stream fed by the early spring melt-off. That might have something to do with Safina—the Zara-inspired character—being in the scene.
It’s a steamy scene—as steamy as it can get when I’m the one writing it.
I hadn’t intended for it to unfold as it had. But I couldn’t get the picture of Zara’s naked breast from three days ago out of my head. The perfect fullness of it. And the hard, rose-brown nipple that has since fueled my lust-filled dreams.
And the next thing I knew, while writing this morning, the argument between Safina and William had shifted directions, and clothes started flying. Their clothes.
For some reason, the scene felt right. Correction. The scene felt like it fit, but I have no idea if I used the right words or if it came out sounding cheesy.
Maybe Zara could check it out and give me feedback.
I rub my hand down my face, imagining her reading the scene, only for her to burst out laughing. But better her than a reviewer or a reader. They won’t be laughing…unless it ’s so bad, it’s funny.
A text pings on my phone.
Tyson: Deploying next week for twelve months. Hoping to bring family to visit you once I’m stateside again.
Me: Looking forward to it. Can’t wait to challenge your ass on the local trails.
I’m sure he’ll whip my ass on them—not that I’ll admit that to him.
I return to working on my novel.
A giggle outside the window a few minutes later yanks my attention from the laptop screen to my daughter. Athena is blowing bubbles while Peony tries to catch them. But the breeze keeps playing games, pushing them away, preventing Peony from touching them.
I could use a brief break from writing, so I put my laptop on the desk and join them in the backyard.
“Hey, you two. What are you doing?” It’s a rhetorical question.
Peony points to the bubbles floating up. One bumps into a branch and bursts. “Pop!” Peony’s toothy smile grows wider.
I chuckle. “You know what? If you fly, you can catch the bubbles.”
Peony watches a few more bubbles bump into branches, then holds up her arms. “Fly!” She bounces up and down, her feet not leaving the grass, her knees doing all the work. “Fly! Fly!”
Her trust in me has grown considerably in the past two weeks, and a bubble-light warmth fills me. I hoist her up, laughter rolling through me.
It might be time to introduce her to my father and Kellan again. To introduce her to Lucas and Troy. To see if she’ll give them a chance now she has accepted me.
“Okay, Athena. More bubbles.” I nod at her.
She pulls the long hoop from the solution and blows a stream of bubbles.
“Ready to pop them?” I lift Peony toward the closest bubble.
She pokes it with her finger, and it bursts. Peony and Athena cheer.
I move her to another bubble. She claps it between her small hands. We chase a few more, Peony popping each one.
My phone rings in my pocket. I consider ignoring it. I’d rather not interrupt the precious time I have with my daughter before I have to get back to work. But it’s the tune I programmed for Emily, and she would only call me at this time of day if it was important.
I lower Peony onto my hip, her little legs straddling me, and answer the phone with my other hand. “Hey, Em. What’s up?”
“Hi. I’m sorry to interrupt you while you’re working, but Zara has her rheumatologist appointment this afternoon. I can’t drive her anymore because I’m now dealing with a work crisis. I know you’re super busy with your deadline, but can you take her?”
I frown—and not because Emily barely took a breath in all that. “What rheumatologist appointment?”
Emily mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “Oh, shit.”
“What rheumatologist appointment?” I repeat, my tone harsher this time.
Peony squirms in my arm. I crouch, lowering her to the ground. She toddles off after a small butterfly flying around the flower beds.
A thickening silence stretches on the other end of the line. I walk along the stepping stones leading to the garden beyond the hedge. “Don’t make me ask a third time, Em.”
“She has an appointment this afternoon in Portland,” Emily says, defeat carrying the words on a sigh. “I said I would drive her, and Kellan was fine with that. But he got called away on an emergency and I need to stay here…and no one else is available to drive Zara to Portland.”
My frown deepens. “Why does she need to see a rheumatologist?”
A bird somewhere above my head squawks as if in reply, and Peony’s faint giggles reach me from the other side of the tall hedge.
“Samuel and her family physician suspect Zara’s eye inflammation and her chronic pain might be linked.” None of what she’s telling me is news—other than the rheumatologist appointment.
Why didn’t Zara ask me to drive her when she found out about the appointment? Why didn’t she tell me what Samuel and her physician suspected?
I get the location and time deets from Em and text Zara.
Me: I’ll pick you up at 1 p.m .
That will give us enough time to get there.
Zara: Pick me up for what?
Me: Your rheumatologist appt
That you never told me about.
Zara: You don’t need to come. Em’s driving me.
Me: Change of plan. Emergency came up.
Zara: You can’t drive me. You have a deadline!!!
Me: And you have an appt. Your appt trumps all.
Granted, my publisher and the movie studio might not see it that way, but that’s not my concern right now. Zara is.
Zara: Really, Garrett, you don’t need to drive me. I can drive myself.
I snort a humorless laugh and speed dial her number. She picks up on the second ring.
“If you could drive yourself,” I say before she can respond, “you wouldn’t have asked Emily to take you. A few hours won’t kill the book. Besides, I need your feedback on a scene I’m working on.” Specifically, the steamy one.
“What kind of scene?” Suspicion swings in her tone, and I picture her dubiously eyeing her phone.
“One that involves the kind of books you, Em, and Simone like to read.”
“Romance? You’re talking about romance novels?” A silent chuckle wraps through her vowels, dangles from her consonants.
“Yup, I’m talking about romance. We can discuss it when I pick you up in two hours.”
Her low, throaty laugh pours through the phone line, teasing me. “Can’t wait.”
We end the call, and I return to where Peony and Athena are playing .
Peony toddles to me, her little legs moving quickly. She stops and lifts her arms. “Fly! Fly!”
Her wide toothy grin is too irresistible to say no to, even if I should return to work. I scoop her up under her arms.
Holding her high, I do a lap of the small area of grass. Peony makes a funny spluttering-engine noise that sends Athena doubling over with laughter and has me chuckling.
We finish the lap, ending up at the patio. I press a light kiss on Peony’s forehead. It’s just a small kiss, the kind a parent gives their child. The kind I’ve witnessed Athena do plenty of times.
It’s a test. To see just how far we’ve come. To see if Peony is ready to accept me as her father. To accept me , the man who this amazing little girl has wrapped around her fingers.
Peony stiffens in my arms, and it feels like we’re back to where we started, when she showed up in my life.
A portion of my heart crumples at her hands. Falls to the ground like a dying leaf, ready to be crushed under foot.
But then the tension seems to fizzle from her body. She rests her head on my chest, where my heart is thumping loudly for her, and all the air in my lungs whooshes out in relief.
I tighten my arms in a small hug, letting her know she’s safe. I don’t want to put her down, to let go of her now I’ve built this level of trust between us. A thinly woven trust, easily broken if not treated with the utmost care.
Her trust is one of the most precious things in this world.
She is the most precious thing.
But as much as I don’t want to let go of my daughter, I don’t have a choice. I can’t let Zara down either. And I have to get in more words before picking her up for her appointment.
Is this what parenting is? Juggling so many plates and trying not to drop any. Hoping if one cracks, the outcome won’t be devastating.
I don’t know how my parents managed. Mom worked part time as a nurse, but she also had three boys—four once Kellan became part of the family.
She helped us with our schoolwork, took care of us, drove us to hockey practices and games.
Yet, she was still there for her friends and neighbors if they needed a helping hand.
I always suspected Mom was a superhero. Now I’m a single father, trying not to let any plates fall, I’m more than ever convinced of it.
“As much as I want to stay and play with you two,” I tell Peony, “I have to work a little longer and then drive Zara to Portland. But I’ll be back in time for your bedtime.”
I look up in time to catch Athena’s frown. The grooves in her forehead swiftly smooth away, leaving me to wonder if I imagined the annoyed expression. Or maybe it was worry. Or jealousy.
None of the emotions make sense, so I brush her reaction aside. It was nothing more than my imagination, the side effect of being a fiction author. She’s not a character in any of my books, past or present. The last thing I need to do is interpret her reactions as if she is.
I really know nothing about Athena—about her past, her family, her life goals—so I can’t possibly know what she’s thinking. And I shouldn’t mentally accuse her of thoughts that aren’t truly there.
Once Untold Mercy is with my editor, I’ll make more of an effort to get to know Athena. Make more of an effort to get her to open up to me. As employer and employee. As friends.
I put Peony down on the grass. Another butterfly flutters by the hydrangeas, and Peony toddles over to check it out.
“Don’t worry about making lunch for me,” I tell Athena. “I’ll grab something quick before I leave.”
I return to my office, post an update on social media about the shitload of Advance Reader Copies the publisher is giving away of my upcoming release, and then semi-disappear into my work in progress.
But it’s hard to focus on the words; my thoughts keep drifting to how Zara needs to see a rheumatologist. The cause of her pain is beyond her family physician’s level of expertise.
And that’s making me antsy.
My word count has spluttered to nearly a standstill by the time I get ready to pick up Zara.
Even though I told Athena not to worry about making me lunch, a sandwich sits at my place on the kitchen table. Athena is on the couch, reading to Peony from one of the picture books.
I sit at the table, watching them as I eat, wishing I could join them. But I have no intention of making Zara miss her appointment. I have no intention of not being there for her.
Zara is waiting for me outside as I pull up in front of her building.
Her brow creased, she climbs onto the passenger seat of the Explorer. I can’t read Athena’s expressions, but I know Zara’s as well as I know my own.
“You’re not a burden, so get that thought out of your head. I’m happy to help you out.” I’d do anything for Zara. She’s got to know that by now. “I’m more than just your kissing buddy.” The corner of my mouth quirks up, and my gaze drops to her lips. The full lips I can’t wait to kiss again.
Zara’s thigh bounces on the car seat. Damn, she’s nervous as hell. Usually, the leg bouncing is reserved for when she’s super stressed. If we weren’t sitting in the Explorer, needing to get going, I’d kiss her.
I reach over and thread her fingers with mine. “You don’t have to do this alone, Zara. I’ll be there for you. If you want.” I squeeze her hand and pull away from the curb.
“I know. I just hate going all that way for nothing. I saw a rheumatologist in Eugene a few weeks ago, and he thought I might have early rheumatoid arthritis. What makes this rheumatologist any different?”
“Maybe this one will have more definitive answers. Your physician referred you to them for a reason.” One person can’t be an expert in everything.
If my FBI contacts can’t answer one of my book-related questions, they get the answer from someone who is an expert on the topic—as long as the information isn’t classified.
“Hopefully you’re right.”
I release her hand and steer right onto the busy residential street. We drive past single-story homes and the scattering of cars parked in front of them.
“How are the renovations going?” I feel out of the loop compared to normal because of my deadline.
“Not bad. I’m also in the process of planning a grand reopening. Lauren McNair has agreed to perform during the afternoon. ”
“That’s great.” Her eclectic mix of country, pop, and ’70s-style pop-rock music has gained her quite a following in the area.
“I’m also planning a sampler menu for the day, so people can try out the different foods that usually rotate on the menu.”
I briefly shift my eyes from the road in time to catch a wry smile curving her mouth. “So, you want to tell me why you need my romance novel ‘expertise’?” She air quotes the word.
I’m more interested in finding out why she never told me about the previous rheumatology appointment and how she might have rheumatoid arthritis, but I let her take the lead in the conversation.
I explain the scene I’m working on, and that I’m upping the level of romance in the story compared to in my previous books.
She laughs my favorite throaty chuckle. The sound of it slightly eases my own concerns about what’s going on with her body. Concerns I don’t want to give voice to…in case that’s all it takes to make them come true.
“I can definitely help with that.” Her lips twitch, as if trying to hold back more laughter. “Just how steamy are you looking to write? I’m assuming not super spicy, since that’s not what your books are known for.”
I have no idea what that entails, but I can guess. And she’s right. That’s not what my readers expect from me. “Maybe midlevel steam.”
“I can loan you the romances with scenes appropriate for your book. And I’ll mark the pages—with the kissing and the spicy times—so you don’t have to read the entire novel.”
“That’ll be great. Thanks.”
“And I’d be happy to read your scenes and give you feedback, so you don’t get any WTF reviews.” The sexy laughter returns to her tone, hitting me square in the groin, causing my cock to perk up.
I swallow a groan. What the fuck?
This is Zara. My best friend. The woman I shouldn’t want. The woman who has been sneaking into my dreams lately. Dreams I had in college and she starred in more times than I want to confess to.
Dreams that would put those spicy scenes she’s referring to…to shame.