She propped her chin on my chest, looking up at me with a dreamy gaze.“Okay.I’ll do it.”
My grin nearly split my face in two.
Because for however backwards and strange it was, our zig-zag path to happiness made sense.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CLARA
CLARA
I woke up to sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Nash's bedroom—ourbedroom now—and the faint sound of Mia giggling from downstairs.
It had been two weeks since I'd officially moved in, and every morning still felt surreal.Like I'd wake up and discover this was all an elaborate dream and I wasn't actually living in a penthouse on Wall Street with a distant view of the Statue of Liberty and a custom greenhouse to hold all my exotic botanical garden plants.Nash wasn't actually my husband.This perfect life wasn't actually mine.
But then Nash would roll over and pull me close or Mia would come running in asking for pancakes, and I'd remember: this was impossibly, wonderfully real.I still had my old apartment, but I’d left behind anything we didn’t need.
This was my home now.
I padded out to the kitchen in one of Nash's T-shirts, a Case Western Reserve tee from his home state of Ohio, following the sound of Mia's laughter.She was perched on the counter in her jammies—something I normally wouldn't allow, but rules were always bent for Naff—helping him crack eggs into a bowl.
"Mommy!"She spotted me and waved enthusiastically."We making breakfast!"
"How lovely."I kissed the top of her head, then stood on my toes to kiss Nash."Good morning."
"Morning, beautiful."He handed me an iced coffee, exactly how I liked it—which looked just the same as his iced coffee."You’re just in time."
I leaned against the counter, sipping my coffee and unable to fight a smile.Mia was wearing her dragon pajamas, her hair in the lopsided ponytail Nash had attempted.He was in sweatpants and nothing else, all tattooed muscle and domestic bliss.
This.This was everything I'd never dared to hope for.
After breakfast, Nash retreated to his home office for a few hours—he had calls with lawyers about the ongoing lawsuit against the city, which didn’t seem likely to resolve anytime soon.Since Little Sprouts was closed today due to a plumbing issue, Mia and I played in her room.Her new room was three times the size of her old bedroom and filled with toys and books and a coloring nook by the window.
I'd brought all my plants when we moved in, and they were scattered throughout the penthouse now, thriving in the abundant light.Nash said it made the place feel like a home instead of a showroom.
By early afternoon, Mia was down for her nap, and I had the penthouse to myself.Nash was still on calls, his office door closed.So I did what I'd been doing most afternoons lately—I curled up on the couch with my laptop, classical music playing softly from the speakers, and caught up on emails and research.
This was my favorite part of the day.The quiet.The focus.The feeling that I was building toward something.
I'd been working with Nash on the Queens neighborhood situation.Over the past two weeks, we'd visited several times, meeting with residents, hearing their concerns.These were families who'd lived there for generations, small business owners who'd built their livelihoods brick by brick.They were terrified of what Sebastian Cross's Meridian project would mean for them.
And I'd become increasingly invested.Not just because Nash cared, but because these were the kinds of communities I'd gone into urban planning to protect.The ones that got bulldozed in the name of "progress" and "development" while rich developers got richer.
I was in the middle of learning about zoning variance applications when the intercom in the foyer buzzed.I walked over and pressed the button.Security from downstairs said there was a courier in the lobby who needed to hand deliver something.
Frowning, I okayed the delivery, and lingered in the foyer.A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door.A uniformed man stood in the hall, holding a large envelope.
"Delivery for Clara Nightingale," he said after I opened the door.
My new last name still gave me a little thrill every time I heard it.I signed for the envelope and closed the door, turning it over in my hands.It was from a law firm I didn't recognize.My belly cinched into a nut of anxiety.
I tore it open, pulling out the sheaf of papers inside.
The words at the top made my vision blur: EMERGENCY PETITION FOR CUSTODY MODIFICATION
PRESTON CLARKE, Petitioner, vs.CLARA NIGHTINGALE (née Whitehall), Respondent
Petitioner hereby requests emergency modification of custody arrangement on the grounds that Respondent is unfit to maintain primary custody of minor child, MIA CLARKE.
