“I still want you.” The admission tears from my throat. “Seeing you today, having you here, it’s taking everything I have not to—”
“Mommy! Daddy! Come see!” Bella’s voice breaks the spell, and Desiree ducks under my arm, escaping.
“Coming, baby!” Desiree calls, not looking back at me.
I take a moment to breathe, to adjust myself in my jeans, and to calm the fuck down. But when I follow her to the dining room and see her laughing with Gina and helping Bella with her tree, I realize I don’t want her to leave.
Dinner is loud and messy, with five kids talking over each other. I’m helping Isa with her spaghetti when Gina asks Desiree about work.
“Mommy’s really smart,” Bella announces proudly. “She helps people make their businesses famous on the internet.”
“Is that right?” I catch Desiree’s eye, and something warm passes between us. Pride. The acknowledgment that we made this brilliant, confident little girl together.
“Well, I try,” Desiree says modestly. “I’m a social media manager at a small marketing agency. And I’m taking night classes in human resources.”
“I thought your degree was in social work?”
“It is, but after getting—” She glances at Bella, at all the kids, and her expression shutters. “social work wasn’t for me.”
There’s a story there, something dark she’s protecting the kids from hearing. What the hell happened to her? I make a mental note to ask her about it later.
“Good on you for finding out sooner than later,” Gina says warmly. “What made you decide to go back to school?”
“My boss encouraged me to do so .” Desiree glances at Bella, who’s making a spaghetti beard with Isa. “She wants to promote me, which will mean more for B’s investment bonds.”
Investment bonds. Not spending money. Savings for our daughter’s future. Because that’s who Desiree is.
In five years, she’s never requested a dime beyond the nanny’s salary, Bella’s health insurance, and private school costs. Made it crystal clear through my lawyer—the same one who oversaw that goddamn paternity test—that all contact between us goes through him or Patricia.
When Bella weaned herself at three months, Desiree was the one who suggested the month-in-month-out visitation schedule so the nanny could travel with our daughter between states and we could have her equally.
No drama. No demands. Just practical solutions that put Bella first.
I’d done her a huge disservice by accusing her of being a gold digger.
Maverick catches my eye across the table, one eyebrow raised. He knows exactly what I’m thinking. What I’ve been thinking for three months, ever since Bella started kindergarten and our routine changed.
He and I have been talking for six months about my working remotely from Atlanta, managing the Winter Bay project with biweekly site visits once we’re past the critical phase next fall. Maverick’s been more than understanding—actually encouraging me to go.
But that’s still months away. Nine more months of missing the daily bustle Desiree gets to experience in Atlanta, from the rushed morning routines where Bella probably protests getting dressed to the after-school struggles over healthy snacks and random Tuesday afternoon giggles.
And even then, I can’t just walk away. Maverick raised me after our parents died when I was sixteen. Worked two jobs to put me through college. Built this firm from nothing and made me Chief Design Engineer. I owe him everything.
Still, watching Desiree at my family’s table, seeing how Bella lights up with both of us here—holy hell, how have we been doing this for five years?
How do I keep doing it for nine more months?
After dinner, while the kids watch a movie, I show Desiree to the guest suite. It’s right next to my room—an intentional setup on my part.
“Gina left some clothes on the bed,” I say, trying not to imagine her naked. “They’re all new with tags.”
Desiree fingers the soft fabrics. “This is too much. I have clothes—”
“You can’t wear the stuff you planned to wear in Jamaica while you’re stuck here.” I push off the doorframe, moving closer.Close enough that the vanilla and orange blossom scent of her wraps around me. “Let me take care of you, sweetness.”
She goes still, her back to me, shoulders tensing. When she turns, there’s fire in her eyes. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” I take another step, closing the distance between us.
