Chapter 30
Thirty
Poppy
“Mom?”
I turn from the slowly filling coffee pot and watch Holly half-stumble, half-sleepwalk across the room, rubbing her fists over her eyes.
She’s in the spare set of pajamas Clover keeps at her place, her hair a mess.
But she’s my adorable baby girl.
“Come here, munchkin,” I say, crouching down and opening my arms.
My left one is aching and I’m definitely ready for some pain medicine, but it never sits well on an empty stomach for me.
So toast and coffee and pills.
But hugging my little girl first.
“I was worried,” she whispers, snuggling close and holding me tight.
“I’m sorry, baby. But I’m okay. Did you see my cast?” I ask when she pulls back, shoves her hair back.
“It’s red,” she says…and yup, it’s judgmental.
“Yup.” I bite back a grin. “Want to sign it?”
That has her eyes lighting up. “Am I the first person?”
“I promised you would be, remember?” I hitch my head to the side. “Want to grab the Sharpie?”
“Yeah! I’m gonna write my name big.” She runs off to pull out the basket of markers we keep beside her coloring books.
Lips twitching, I turn back to the coffee pot…
To find Storm standing there.
With thunderclouds back in his eyes.
I frown, but to his credit, he just holds up the cream and sugar.
“One sugar,” I murmur. “A big splash of cream.”
Silently, he doctors up my coffee and passes it over. “Sit,” he mutters.
“I was going to make a piece of toast so I can take some pain medicine.”
That makes his scowl deepen, but he just nods to the chair. “I’ll make you some and get your pills. Sit.”
My hackles go up at the order, and I narrow my eyes at him, but before I can snap back, Holly is at my side with a plethora of permanent markers.
Storm puts a couple of slices of bread in the toaster, disappears from the room.
A minute later, he’s back with two bottles of pills in his hands.
“I—”
But he just opens the bottle of ibuprofen.
I clamp my lips closed.
“If the pain gets worse, we’ll talk about the others.”
“I’ll be fine,” I mutter.
“I said what I said.” He puts three tablets in front of me then turns away to deal with the bread that’s popped out of the toaster. Before I can tell him how I want it, he moves to the fridge and grabs the butter then turns to the spice rack and plucks out the cinnamon and sugar.
He slaps butter on the toast, tops it with the gloriousness of cinnamon and sugar.
Then he’s bringing the plate over.
“Whatcha think?” Holly exclaims.
I glance down and grin at the lopsided H-O-L-L-Y surrounded by swirls and stars and hearts. “I love it, baby.”
“Are you gonna sign too, Dad?” she asks, holding up the basket.
Storm jerks—and I do as well, neither of us used to her calling him that yet.
“Yeah, peanut-who’s-not-a-peanut,” he says after a moment. “I’m going to sign.”
“Why don’t you get changed out of your jammies?” I tell her. “You don’t want to be late for camp.”
A flicker of worry on her face, “Are you going to pick me up today?”
I nod. “I wouldn’t miss hearing about your day now, would I?”
“Promise?”
I tug gently at a lock of her hair. “Promise.” I lean in. “And if you’re extra good, I may even bring you to Scoops.”
The worry flashes away.
Her arms fly up.
“Scoops!” she hollers, sprinting down the hall.
I chuckle, call after her, “Don’t forget to wash your face and brush your teeth please!”
“I won’t!”
“Eat,” Storm grunts.
I whip back to face him. “Do you have a problem?” I grit out.
“Yup,” he mutters.
“Care to explain what the heck it is?” I mutter back.
A pause, a muscle in his cheek flickering. Then he exhales. “I woke up alone.” A beat. “Again.”
The first had made my brows pull together, confusion gathering in my mind. The second, the way it’s rasped out, the sadness that clings to the edges, the hurt…
Damn.
“Storm,” I murmur. “I—”
“Mom!” Holly yells. “I can’t find my toothbrush!”
I close my eyes for a second, exhale, and then peel back the lids. “Be right there!” I call. I look at Storm again, but he just snags a marker and scrawls his name on my cast with the practiced aplomb of a man who’s done it hundreds, if not thousands, of times.
“I’ll help her,” he says, dropping it back into the basket.
“Storm,” I say, catching his arm.
He halts, glances down at me.
“I didn’t want to wake you.” I nibble at my bottom lip. “That’s why I got up. I knew you had to be tired after yesterday and Holly had to get ready for camp and…” I shrug. “I wasn’t trying to—”
He scrubs his hands over his face, groans softly. “I’m being an asshole. I’m sorry.” He drops them. “Ignore me, Poppyseed.”
“Storm—”
“Moooom!”
A chuckle, his lips twitching. Then he kisses the top of my head and walks off, tossing over his shoulder, “Shep made you the bouquet of flowers.” A beat. “His version of an apology.”
I glance at the truly ugly collection of blooms sitting in a vase on the counter.
But how someone can be that bad at arranging flowers isn’t what I’m thinking about as I watch Storm go.
I woke up alone. Again.
“Dammit,” I whisper, almost standing and following him, wanting to erase the hurt on his face, in his words.
But my wrist is throbbing and I need to get some medicine down.
And I have the feeling he won’t really hear me right now anyway.
Sighing, I reach for the slice of toast, remember that it’s made exactly how I like it.
“How the heck did he remember that?” I murmur, my heart pulsing, another wave of guilt hitting…along with a smattering of pain.
Food. Ibuprofen. Apologies.
Ready, set, break.
I sip and I eat and I choke down the tablets.
Then I fumble my way through pouring Holly some cereal and a glass of apple juice.
It’s only after I’ve put my mug and plate in the sink that I realize Holly and Storm have been gone far longer than it should take to locate a toothbrush.
I hurry from the kitchen and across the living room, dip into the hall…
And skid to a halt.
Because there are voices in the bathroom—okay, right, the voices (Storm and Holly) are expected, it’s just…
What they’re saying that doesn’t compute.
“No, I want it fishy style.”
A pause and I can picture Storm’s expression: befuddlement. Then, I hear him say, “Ah, a fishtail braid?”
And the pieces click into place.
And…hell, but my heart can’t handle it, or the potential of it, or—
The sight of it.
I sidle forward, peek around the corner—
Yup.
My heart can’t handle the sight of Holly standing and facing the mirror, Storm behind her as he carefully brushes and sections her hair.
Then proceeds to create two perfect pigtails he then braids in “fishy” style.
Something I’m hopeless at.
Something he’s clearly accomplished at.
And Shep’s teasing from the other night comes back to me. I dismissed it as drunken shit-giving, but apparently, it was the truth.
Storm Harrison can braid hair.
“Like that?” he asks softly, and I jump, realize that he’s finished and secured the ends with ponytail holders.
“This is amazing!” Holly chirps, spinning around, those perfect braids flying as she launches herself at Storm.
She squeezes him tightly in that wonderful, Holly way she has—the one that makes me feel both a hundred feet tall and like I’ll shatter into a thousand pieces at the wrong touch because I’m so full of love for this tiny human.
And I know she gives him that too because I see it written into every line of his face.
Then Holly’s pulling back, tearing from the room and nearly plowing me over. “I can’t wait to show Asher my hair!” she bellows, running for the kitchen.
“Breakfast first,” I call after her.
“We found her toothbrush,” Storm murmurs, and I whip back to face him, my heart hurting in the best possible way.
Throat tight, I just nod.
He brushes his knuckles over the top of my cheek. “You able to eat and take the pills?”
I nod again.
“Good,” he murmurs.
“Storm,” I begin as he starts to walk by me.
Gray eyes on mine, an edgy tenseness in his frame.
“I—” But the words don’t come. Mostly because I don’t know what to say, don’t know how to make him feel better, don’t know where to go after yesterday.
His expression softens. “It’s okay, Poppyseed. Promise.” He nods down the hall. “I’ll just go pack Holly’s lunch.”
I blink.
Because I forgot about her needing a lunch.
Another brush of his knuckles, this time trailing down my throat.
Then he’s stepping by me—
“You won’t wake up alone again,” I blurt.
It’s what I wanted to say.
Kind of.
Because as I process the words that just slid off my tongue—and what he might think I’m insinuating—my cheeks go red-hot.
“I, uh, I—” A shake of my head. “I mean, if you— If we— If I—”
God, I beg you. Please kill me now.
I risk a glance up, see that Storm is looking positively gleeful now.
Then he bends and brushes his lips over mine.
“Noted, Poppyseed.”