Chapter 12
Twelve
Poppy
Maybe I shouldn’t have gone on a rant.
God knows this town has its flaws, and Storm hasn’t exactly had an easy time of it, what with his dad being his dad and all.
But, after all that Cedar Hollow has done for me, I’m a bit defensive of my hometown.
Still, I don’t like the way his eyes changed, anger blending with hurt before he buried both emotions beneath a veneer of calm as we finished our walk down Main Street.
Now we’re back in the apartment and we’re all eating dinner around my worn kitchen table, and he’s the Storm from before—he’s spent the last hour teasing Holly as they cooked, being patient with her as they rolled out the pasta, as they whipped up the homemade sauce from scratch, and doing it all with an easy aplomb that I can’t help but be jealous of.
Not to mention the garlic bread.
“This is heaven,” I murmur as I devour yet another piece.
It’s my fourth, and I’ve already had two bowls of pasta.
And picked at my salad.
Because let’s be frank here, it’s not about the healthy greens, not about the fiber and vitamins and antioxidants, nor even about the delicious salad dressing.
(Something Storm also created from scratch.)
It’s the pasta and the sumptuous sauce—with that yummy Italian sausage that even Holly has decided she likes.
And the bread.
Okay. So really, it’s about the carbs.
Storm smiles and takes a bite of pasta.
But it’s not a real smile.
It’s as though the voices from the grocery store are chasing him again, their whispers filling the air and sending his shoulders tighter and tighter and tighter.
Until he’ll snap.
Or close down so hard there won’t be any glimpse of the man he is inside.
Just ice shrouding the thunderstorm within.
“I’m glad you like it,” he says.
“I like it too!” Holly exclaims, a red ring of sauce around her mouth.
“I’m glad you do,” he tells her and that ice cracks for a second as he lifts a napkin and wipes at her mouth.
And maybe the ice inside me cracks a little too.
Or maybe, it’s never stood a chance against this man.
I stifle a sigh as he sets the napkin on the table.
“Especially since you helped make it,” he adds.
“Yup,” she says. “I sure did.” She picks up her now empty bowl and dances it over to the sink. “And I can’t wait to make it again!” She sets the bowl inside. “Now can we have ice cream?”
I groan. “I don’t know if I have room for ice cream just yet.” Probably because I’ve devoured my body weight in delicious, garlicky carbs. “Do you want to pick a game?” I say before she can protest. “I’ll do the dishes. Afterward, we can play, and then after that we can have ice cream.”
She considers that. “Can Storm stay for the games and ice cream?”
I shrug, trying for casual even though this whole evening feels anything but. “If he wants to.”
Storm’s eyes come to mine and I see lightning flashing behind all that ice, but then he blinks and the tempest is gone, his words light when he says, “Oh, I’m definitely staying for ice cream.” A wink to Holly. “After all, we’ve got to prove to your mom that bubblegum is the best, right?”
She grins then runs off to pick a game.
Which will probably be UNO and I’ll soon enough be having my ass handed to me by a six-year-old.
I can’t even take credit for her card sharp skills.
That’s all Uncle Sully.
I’ve never had the patience.
But even as a toddler, Holly had the head for it.
“Thanks,” Storm murmurs and I glance up, see he’s watching me.
“For what?”
“For letting me have tonight.”
That familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach comes back with a vengeance. It’s easy to pretend that everything’s fine when he and Holly are messing around in the kitchen and we’re all sitting around the table, especially with Holly filling the space between us.
I can almost pretend Storm is just another visitor joining us for dinner—something that’s regular enough.
But with him looking at me like that…
Alarm bells are chiming.
I clear my throat. “Well, thank you for cooking,” I tell him. “You really saved the day from my poor kitchen skills.”
“It was nothing.” A beat. “Plus, you can’t be that bad. Clearly, you two aren’t starving.”
“Ask Holly that on meatloaf night,” I quip.
He laughs and I freeze, the sound so wonderful, so beautiful I want to box it up and hold it close.
Then I remember what I’m doing.
What I’m risking.
For a man who left, who’ll leave again.
“Anyway,” I say curtly, and I know he clocks the abrupt shift in my tone—how couldn’t he?—but I’m still talking. “You made a much more palatable meal than I could. So, thanks.”
His gaze comes to mine, holding, that storm in his eyes surging forward again. But all he says is, “You’re welcome,” then he’s on his feet, grabbing the plates and heading for the sink. The water turns on.
I shove the last of the garlic bread into my mouth and stand, hurrying over. “You cooked,” I say, chewing and swallowing in a hurry, “I’ll do the dishes.”
“I’ve got them.”
“Storm,” I begin, setting my hand on his arm. “Let—”
He whips toward me and I skitter back at the icy expression on his face, my hand dropping to my side as he says, “I talked to my agent.”
“They don’t remember,” I whisper, something knotting in my stomach.
Because if he throws the plate he’s clutching in his hands like he threw the drink last night…he can’t stay. Biology or not, I won’t let that type of violence be around my daughter.
He studies my face.
Then sighs and picks up the sponge, starts scrubbing at the dish, and I don’t miss that he’s doing it carefully, like he’s trying to contain the anger raging through him. “No, they don’t remember you reaching out.” A beat. “Not specifically.”
I frown. “What does that mean?”
“Apparently she’s received dozens of paternity claims over the years.”
My eyes go wide. “Dozens?”
A nod.
“I—” I bite the inside of my cheek. “Is it possible?”
“A week ago, I would have said no. I’ve not not used a—” He glances over where Holly is rustling through the game cabinet and lowers his voice. “Except for that one time with you, I’ve always used protection.”
Something relaxes in me.
“But I’m still having Allie run all of them down.” He sets the plate in the drying rack then drops his chin to his chest, finishing almost silently, “Just in case.”
“I’m sorry.”
His head flies up. “What could you possibly be sorry for?”
“I should have tried harder to reach you. Should have—”
One second, I’m watching a tornado of emotions in his eyes. The next, his soapy hands are on my cheeks, cupping my face. “You don’t have anything to apologize for, Pop.”
“But you’re so…”
He tilts my head up, as though searching my face for an explanation. “So what?”
“Angry,” I whisper. “Last night. And even today.” I press my lips together then release them and admit, “I’ve seen it inside you—your anger. It clings to you, no matter how hard you try to bury it.”
And even now as I talk, I see it again— that flicker of deep-seated rage.
“I’m not mad at you,” he says softly.
My brows lift. “You’re not?” For some reason—and even though I’m still mad at him—the answer matters.
It matters a lot.
He pauses, exhales. “No, baby. I’m not mad at you. Not really.”
“Then who?” I ask, even as my heart starts pounding, that baby slicing clean through me, cutting me off right at my knees.
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and is quiet for a long moment.
At least until his words slice through me all over again.
“I’m furious at myself,” he rasps. “For not being here. For leaving and not looking back. And at my dad”—his throat works—“for being who he was.” A sigh. “And I’m mad at—”
“I dealt the cards, Mom!” Holly calls. “Are you guys ready to play?”
Storm has gone still.
Then his eyes slide closed and he exhales.
“Go,” I whisper. “I’ll finish the dishes and then join you guys so my daughter can destroy me in UNO.”
Another breath before his lids peel open, that flurry of emotions tucked back behind the ice. “Destroy you?” he asks, clearly trying to lighten the mood.
“Holly’s got major card skills,” I tell him, doing the same. “She’ll destroy you too.”
He chuckles. “Them’s fighting words, Pop.”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “But it’s the truth.”
And then I get something beautiful: soft gray eyes.
Morning fog instead of ice and thunderstorms.
“Go,” I whisper, my heart aching for all of us. “I’ll even bring out that awful bubblegum ice cream when I’m done.”
Even softer.
“Them’s more fighting words, baby,” he murmurs, his body shifting oh so slightly, his head dropping an inch.
Two.
Until I can feel his breath on my lips.
Until I start shifting too.
Until our mouths are—
“Mom!”
We jump apart, and I press a hand to my chest.
“Go,” I order again.
This time he listens and I watch him walk into the other room, his body strong and his strides confident as he crosses the space and sits down next to Holly at the coffee table.
And then I listen as I do the dishes.
As Holly absolutely destroys him.
At least in the first round.
Because it turns out that Storm has serious UNO skills too.
Luckily, the fierce competition is smoothed over by bubblegum ice cream.