"You're really good at this," Lucy announces, inspecting her finished hand with the critical eye of a seasoned manicurist. "Way better than my Dad. He always gets it on my skin. But he tries, you know. Sometimes he lets me paint his toes, but don’t tell him I told you."
"Your secret is safe with me. But tell me more… Are they red? He seems like a red-polish kind of man," I say, and she giggles.
From the kitchen, I hear Walker on the phone. He’s saying something about storm damage to a fence line and cattle that need moving. His voice is low and steady. That calm authority radiates from him like heat, and it draws me in like a magnet.
I try not to listen.
I try not to remember how close he was this morning. I push away the ghost of his breath against my lips in the heartbeat before Lucy interrupted us. But it's impossible. He’s imprinted himself on my brain and in my heart.
It’s wild, considering he was a stranger not that long ago. I’ve never experienced anything like it. This rush is giving me a whole new level of compassion for the clients who show up in my office, hearts in shreds. If I spend even another few hours here, going back to my real life is going to sting.
I've been replaying the kitchen scene on a loop for hours. The way he looked at me. The way he loves his daughter down to his bones. He stayed. He was the one who got left, and he built something beautiful anyway. The way he said he stayed with so much conviction.
Men don't say things like that… Or maybe they do.
They say all kinds of pretty things when they want something. But meaning them is different. Following through? That's the fairy tale. And I stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago.
"Eliza?" Lucy's voice pulls me back. "Are you sad?"
I blink at her. "What? No. Why would you think that?"
"You got that look." She scrunches up her nose. "The one my Dad gets sometimes when he thinks I'm not watching. Like you're remembering something that hurts."
Shit. This kid is too perceptive for her own good.
"I'm fine," I say, forcing a smile. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
About your father. About how terrifying it is to want something you've spent your whole life convincing yourself doesn’t exist. About him peeling my shirt off and pressing me into the countertop.
"About how pretty your nails look. You're going to be the most glamorous girl at school."
She beams and holds up her nails, totally distracted. I exhale.
Walker appears in the doorway, phone still in hand. "Storm took out a section of fence on the north pasture. I've got to go help the guys get the cattle secured before they scatter halfway to Oklahoma."
"In this weather?" I glance toward the window. The rain has slowed to a steady drizzle, but the sky is still dark and angry.
"Can't wait. Cows don't care about the weather." He looks at Lucy. "Sweetheart, Patty June's going to come pick you up. You can help her with the baking for the Christmas party."
"Yes!" Lucy pumps her fist. "She said I could use the big mixer this time!"
"Only if you're careful."
"Yeah, duh. I'm always careful."
Walker raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. He looks at me, and something passes between us. Something unfinished.
"You'll be okay here?" he asks.
No. I won’t be okay. I'll be alone with my thoughts and the memory of this morning.
"I'll survive," I say.
His mouth twitches. "Grab a winter coat from the hall closet if you go anywhere. The storm might kick back up this afternoon."
I tilt my head. "Got it, thank you."
