Chapter 41 #2
“Fuck,” I groan, finding her slick and hot and tight as I slide a finger over her clit, through her labia, and press it inside. I pump it in and out, rolling the hard bud of her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, slowly driving us both insane.
“Now,” she orders, bucking against me, her pussy growing slicker, her breathing even more erratic as she presses back, silently begging for more.
“Hmm,” I murmur, fucking her with my finger. “What’s your hurry, baby?”
“That orgasm you promised me,” she says tartly.
I grin and she takes advantage of my distraction, wiggling and shoving her jeans down, sending the denim and her underwear bunching at her ankles.
Works for me.
I slip my finger out of her, grasp her hips, and tug her back.
“Hands on the bar, Pop,” I order and thrust forward.
She slaps them down just in time, catching herself against the wood as I press deep and we both groan in pleasure.
“So tight,” I say, drawing back. “So hot.” I stroke forward. “So fucking wet.” I pull back again and smack that gorgeous plump ass, the crack making her gasp and arch against me.
“Again,” she demands.
And…
Fuck yeah, again.
And again. And again. And—
“Storm!” she shrieks, her hips jerking against mine, that cunt clamping down around me, milking me into an orgasm that has me seeing stars and barely keeping my feet.
“I think,” she says a long time later, “the floor’s been mopped enough.”
I grin. “I think you’re right.” I button my pants, double check the doors are locked and carry Poppy upstairs on legs that feel like they’ve just completed a marathon.
We manage to make it into bed, collapsing in each other’s arms as sleep drags us under.
And like always, I wake up with Poppy pressed against me.
Yeah, life as a Harrison in Cedar Hollow is definitely looking up.
“Dad?” Holly asks a few days later, coming to a halt on the edge of the playground.
“Yeah, peanut-who’s-not-a-peanut?”
She narrows her eyes at me in a remarkable impersonation of her mom, her cone with bubblegum ice cream poised an inch from her mouth.
I bite back a smile and wait for her next question.
Our walks are usually filled with them.
Dad?
Yeah, peanut-who’s-not-a-peanut?
Did you know that bird steals other birds’ nests?
Followed by a three-minute dissertation on the evilness of Scrub Jays and how they push out eggs for their thievery.
Dad?
Yeah, peanut-who’s-not-a-peanut?
Did you know that tree’s called a zombie tree?
Trailed by facts on Blue Oaks who drop their leaves and look dead in the summer but come back to life the following spring.
Dad?
Yeah, peanut-who’s-not-a-peanut?
Did you know that some trees need fire to grow?
After which she tells me all about the Giant Sequoia relying on fire to open its cones.
All things she learned at camp this summer.
At six.
And even if I wasn’t going to help with the fundraiser already, I would have after just one of our walks.
Seeing Holly happy and dirty, tired but full of knowledge and excitement after a day at camp, and it’s easy to see why the town is fighting so hard to keep the programs at the Pioneer Museum running.
The kids spend most of the day outside learning about nature and friendship and teamwork. They take field trips to the beach, to the ice rink, to the park, to Scoops. They play games and make crafts and learn about the native people who once lived in the area.
It’s killer.
Not to mention it’s affordable.
So yeah, it’s win-win all round.
But in this moment, my daughter doesn’t go on with facts about salmon or carnivorous plants. Instead, she falls silent for a long, long moment.
Then her eyes well with tears.
“Hey,” I say quickly, crouching down. “Are you too tired to skate today? We don’t have to go.”
We’d planned to make a short pit stop at the park to eat our ice cream then to cool down at the rink.
But maybe all that play has caught up to her and she needs an afternoon to chill.
“Do you love me?” she asks.
The words…fuck, they kill me.
“Of course I love you, peanut-who’s-not-a-peanut.”
“Then why am I not a Harrison?”
My heart twists. “Holly,” I say gently. “You’re a Baker. And that’s an awesome thing.”
It sure as shit is ten times better than being a Harrison.
“Are you going to become a Baker too?”
“I…” I hesitate because I truly haven’t thought about it. “I don’t know,” I admit.
She scowls. “All my friends have the same last names as their dads.”
Shit.
“Stuff like this gets complicated.” Her face falls. “But,” I add in a rush, “your mom and I can talk—”
“Why weren’t you here?”
I blink at the abrupt question. “What?”
“Chloe says that her dad told her that her mom still loves her even though she died.” A sniff. “He says that her mom would have done anything to still be here for her. But you didn’t die!” Her lungs hitch and she wails, “And you still weren’t here!”
Fuck.
Poppy and I talked about this potentially happening and we’ve done our best to explain what kept me away from Cedar Hollow in age-appropriate terms.
But nothing could have prepared me for this.
And Poppy isn’t here.
I’m flying solo.
What if I fuck this up?
Panic digs its claws in, tears me wide open and everything in me wants to run from this conversation.
But I can’t.
This is too important.
Holly is too important.
“You’re right,” I say. “I wasn’t here, and I’m so sorry I wasn’t.”
Her face screws up and she looks away.
“I’d give anything to go back and change that, to be here with you and your mom for the last seven years.
” I pause and I hate what I have to say next.
But I can’t lie to her. I won’t. “I wish I could time travel, could wave a magic wand and make everything different. But I can’t change what happened, what we missed out on.
All I can do is promise to be here now, to make sure I don’t waste any more time with you or your mom. ”
She stares down at her feet, heaves out a heavy sigh.
“I know it probably doesn’t feel good to hear that,” I say gently. “And I definitely know it’s doesn’t make everything okay.”
“It’s not fair,” she mutters.
“No, it’s not.”
She falls quiet again, still staring at her feet.
“Sometimes when I feel really angry, I shoot pucks,” I offer.
Finally, she looks up, her gray eyes that are so much like mine filled with curiosity instead of anger. “Why?”
“Because it helps me feel less mad when I do something physical.”
“Will it work for me?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “But if it doesn’t, we’ll figure out what does.”
More quiet, her gaze drifting away.
Then, “Ice cream makes me feel happy.”
I smile. “Then it’s a good thing we have the best flavor ever to help us.”
She nods sagely then points at the playground. “Do you think slides will make me feel happy?”
“I don’t know,” I say again. “But I do know that you won’t know until you try.”
Her eyes light up. “Okay. But I want to finish my ice cream first.”
“Sounds like a—”
“HONK!”
I jerk at the deafening noise, whipping around to see that—
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“That’s a bad word,” Holly says.
I don’t have time to apologize. Again.
Because with his wings flapping, his honks filling the air, Gerald is lurching toward us.
No.
Toward me.
No.
Toward my ice cream.
“Ow!” I exclaim as his beak comes down on the back of my hand, my fingers spasming open, my cone dropping to the ground.
Quick as a flash, he scoops it up and starts waddling away.
“Gerald!” Holly commands, slipping by me before I can stop her and marching over to the goose.
“Hol—”
“Drop it,” she orders sharply. “Right now.”
Gerald looks at her—those beady, soulless black eyes fixing on my daughter.
I lurch up to my feet, turn toward them.
But before I make it so much as a single step, Gerald spits out the cone, dropping it to the pavement.
Holly picks it up as he turns and shuffles away like the head of the Cedar Hollow Mafia wasn’t just told off—tamed?—by a six-year-old girl.
“Here, Dad,” she says as she walks back over.
“Um…”
She shoves the melted, goose-drool-covered ice cream into my hand, finishing off hers at the same time.
“I’m gonna go slide now.”