Chapter 10
Ten
Poppy
“Look, Mom!” I jerk, nearly upend the scoop of flour I’ve been carefully trying to measure.
Some of it tumbles over the edges of the measuring cup, sprinkling down onto the floor and my clothes like snow.
Great.
More laundry.
“Look, Mom!” Holly’s excitement is paired with a tug this time, sending more flour flying onto the floor, my clothes, and now, Holly’s too.
Sighing, I set the measuring cup down.
Yay.
Even more laundry.
“What’s up, honey?” I ask, brushing the flour off my hands and following her over to the window.
“Your friend is here. And he brought Scoops!” She pulls the curtains to the side, practically vibrating with excitement, and I again wonder how the hell I’m going to navigate this without either of us getting hurt.
Because Scoops and Monday night dinner?
Park time and Storm’s soft I remember everything?
Seven stolen years and my body not having forgotten how good it feels when his is near?
Panic threatens to burst free just thinking about the tightrope I’m going to have to walk managing all of this, the freaking pieces I’ll have to pick up again, have to glue back together, and—
I clench my teeth.
It doesn’t matter.
So long as I protect Holly.
Except…am I doing that?
Allowing him to come here, opening her up to the hurt that might—will—come.
My stomach twists—
“Let’s go, Mom!”
She grabs my hand, drags me through the front door of our apartment and down the stairs.
A soft grunt as she pushes into the bar, navigating the hushed and shadowed floor like she’s done it a thousand times.
And I suppose she has.
Same as I did growing up.
I just never would have dragged Sully by the hand.
He would’ve told me to gruffly get a move on and answer the door then to get back upstairs so the ice cream didn’t melt.
My uncle wasn’t what one would call warm.
But he loved his ice cream.
And me. Even though he and I were complete opposites.
That loosens the tightness in my throat, the panic, the worry.
(Although the anger at Storm leaving still clings to my bones.)
Regardless, I take a breath, a moment to recenter myself as Holly tows me along.
This may not all go to plan, but I love my daughter.
And ultimately, that’s the most important thing.
Those are the words I cling to as she pushes open the door and bright sunshine fills the space, my heart racing as I see Storm standing there.
God, why does he have to be so beautiful?
I crushed on him hard as a tween, was beside myself as we navigated our silly teenage relationship filled with ice cream dates and holding hands and sneaking kisses. And…I dreamed of that day at the beach a hundred, a thousand times before it actually happened.
But now?
All grown up, strength in every inch of his body, his beard thick, his dark hair shaggy, a slutty little tendril hanging down, draping itself over his forehead?
He’s dangerous as all hell.
Especially since my fingers itch to push that rogue strand back, to run through the rest of his hair.
To skate them down over his nape, over his body. To feel for myself all the ways he’s changed over the years, to soothe the ache inside me that’s never really gone away.
The door slams closed, cutting off the sunlight, and I shake myself, dropping back into reality just in time to get out of my daughter’s way as she hauls Storm down the hall and toward the door that leads upstairs to our apartment.
“You’ve got to look away,” she commands when they pause at the keypad.
“I do?” Storm asks softly as I follow them into the main room of Sully’s.
“Yup,” Holly says. “No one can know the code except for me and Mom and my babysitters.”
His gaze comes to mine, and I ignore that dastardly strand of hair, the strength of his body, the slight hint of approval in his dark gray eyes. “I won’t look,” he promises as I walk over.
For some reason, I can’t hold his stare, can’t let myself feel what’s in those gray eyes.
Instead, I watch Holly screw up her face as she concentrates on pushing the four buttons and the star key.
The lock clicks and she pulls the door open, rushes up the stairs. “Come on, Storm! Mom and I are making pasta from scratch!”
“Impressive,” he says as he follows her.
“Until you realize you’ve signed up for a dinner where the two people cooking don’t know the first thing about making pasta from scratch,” I say dryly.
His brows lift. “Really?”
“Holly gets ideas,” I try to explain.
“Ah,” he says like that makes sense to him when it can’t possibly.
“Ah?” I ask.
“I know all about women getting ideas,” he says sagely.
“Ah,” it’s my turn to say, gritting my teeth together so I don’t add anything else, anything like why the fuck do you know about women and their ideas when I’ve been here alone with our daughter and my pathetically dismal dating life?
First, that’s an insane thing to think.
Second, that’s an insane thing to think.
“My teammate’s wives and daughters,” he says softly, pausing at the top of the stairs, those stupid eyes on mine again.
“What?”
“I know about women and their ideas because of my teammates’ wives and daughters.”
Something slides through my chest, and I freeze, teetering slightly on the step.
Suddenly, Storm is there, his hand wrapping around the top of my arm. “Easy,” he murmurs.
My pulse speeds, my body hyperaware of his touch…and making a desperate plea for me to lean closer, to get a little more contact.
No. To get all the contact.
Dumb. So freaking dumb.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, tugging my arm free.
“When’s the last time you got a full night’s sleep?” he asks, stroking his thumb lightly beneath one of my eyes.
That rage slides forward, threatens to burst free.
About seven fucking years ago, asshole, I want to say.
The night before you walked away from us.
“I’m fine,” I say again, this time brusquely. “Let’s get inside before the ice cream melts.”
And as I snag the container and go into the apartment, I do it wondering if I’m more like Uncle Sully than I previously realized.
Because I think he had the right of it.
All these feelings are too damned complicated.
“No, no,” Storm says. “Like this, pipsqueak.”
“I’m not a pipsqueak!”
I bite back a smile from the sink where I’ve been relegated to dish duty.
Because—no surprise—I’m not good at making homemade pasta.
But I am a deft hand at washing the copious amounts of dishes that making homemade pasta generates.
“Do you even know what a pipsqueak is?” Storm asks as he gently guides Holly’s hands through the egg yolks in the middle of the pile of flour.
“Yeah,” she says, stirring a bit too hard and sending the yolks down the side of the well.
He quickly fixes it. “Yeah?” he says. “Then what is it?”
“A pip—” She mixes with a little more vigor, sending flour and yoke onto the counter…and onto Storm.
Who is completely unbothered.
And I feel that deep inside me too.
He’s had one hour of being a parent.
No.
Not even that.
He’s had an hour of Holly being excited and easy-going. That’s not parenting. Shit gets real at bedtime and while trying to figure out ten-frames and having to listen to her wax poetic about Minecraft for twenty minutes straight.
Still, I can’t help but smile.
Especially when she finishes, “—that squeaks.”
Storm’s gaze finds mine for a heartbeat, the gray depths dancing. “You’re not wrong.” He gathers the now-formed dough into a ball, shows her how to knead it with precise, practiced strokes.
“You’ve done this before,” I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes come to mine for another beat. “Yeah.” A shrug of one broad shoulder. “A few times.”
Wanna bet that a few times is actually many more than that?
Because the man smoothly moves through the motions even as Holly peppers him with questions, her actions messy and jerky—like any six-year-old’s would be—until he declares the dough ready to “rest.”
(Whatever the heck that means since the dough doesn’t look the least bit different to me.)
And, yup, Holly and I definitely would have ended up down at Molly’s if we’d been left to our own devices.
Luckily, we’re not.
“Sauce time,” he says, setting the ball aside to rest. “What ingredients did you pick up for it?”
Holly and I look at each other. “Uhhh.”
Sheepishly, I pick up the jar of premade sauce that’s been sitting on the counter.
His expression is so scandalized, I nearly laugh.
Until he brushes his hands together and hitches his chin toward the door. “Okay then. Let’s go.”
“G-go?” I stammer, my pulse suddenly speeding through my veins. “Go wh-where?”
He grins and it’s so beautiful I don’t process the words at first.
Because they’re both so normal.
And also…so freaking strange.
“The grocery store.”