His gaze shifted to Emma, and he immediately noted the small furrow between her brows, the telltale sign that she was processing something complex. That was his Emma through and through. She was slow to anger but formidable when she finally reached that point. She was smart, intuitive, and had inherited his tendency to analyze situations. Her wheels were clearly turning behind those thoughtful eyes.
"Emma?" he prompted gently, giving her the space she needed to formulate her response.
She held his gaze steadily, and unlike her brother, she didn't offer a casual shrug. Her expression remained serious and thoughtful. "It's okay, Dad, although I would've liked to have had the full weekend with her. We don't get to see her much, so I hate when our time gets cut short."
Her honesty hit him squarely in the chest. Emma had always been more emotionally invested in maintaining their relationship with Patricia, more aware of what they were missing when plans changed or weekends were abbreviated. Her disappointment was real, and she wasn't going to pretend otherwise just to make him feel better.
"I appreciate your honesty, sweetheart," Terry said, meaning every word. "I hate it when your time gets cut short, too. We can check with your mom to see if there's another weekend she has free that she'd like to spend with you guys. You know I'm always flexible with the schedule."
Emma nodded slowly, but her expression told him everything he needed to know. She doubted her mom would follow through and find another weekend to make up for the lost time. The resignation in that look made him want to punch something, but he kept his face carefully composed.
"Or, if she'd like to come over here and spend the day with you guys at the beach or eating out, that would be fine, too," he added, though even as he said it, he was thinking about Sandra.
The thought of Patricia and Sandra occupying the same space didn’t settle well. Patricia truly wouldn’t care, but he didn’t want Sandra to be uncomfortable. He and Sandra needed time to become more solid, more sure of what they were building together, before adding that particular challenge to the mix.
Keeping his thoughts carefully hidden behind a smile, he reached for the empty plates and moved toward the sink, rinsingthem off before loading them into the dishwasher with practiced efficiency.
"Okay, guys, brush your teeth and get ready for bed. As soon as the clothes finish washing, I'll throw them into the dryer and come say good night."
Emma and Toby hopped down from their stools with the resigned acceptance of children who knew the evening was winding down. They headed toward the hallway and their respective bedrooms, their voices carrying back to him as they discussed something about tomorrow's plans.
Terry remained in the kitchen for several long minutes, his weight resting on his palms pressed flat against the cool counter surface. The house felt quiet around him, filled with the comfortable sounds of his children settling in for the night. Even though he and Patricia had been divorced for six years, she would always have a place in his life because of Emma and Toby. That was nonnegotiable, a fact he'd accepted long ago.
But he'd never had a long-term relationship since the divorce, had never brought someone into their carefully constructed family dynamic. Sandra was different, though. She wasn't casual, wasn't a temporary distraction or a way to pass time. He wanted more with her, wanted to build something real and lasting. The problem was figuring out how to blend everyone and navigate those waters without destroying what he'd built with his kids or what he was building with Sandra.
The familiar ding from the washing machine interrupted his brooding thoughts. He pushed himself upright and walked into the laundry room, going through the automatic motions of transferring wet clothes to the dryer. The mundane task gave his hands something to do while his mind continued wrestling with the complexity of his situation.
After saying good night to the kids with the hugs and kisses that he hoped they'd never outgrow, he made his way throughthe house on his nightly security check. Every window, every door, every lock reflected the habits of a man who'd seen too much of what could go wrong in the world. He wouldn't go to bed until the dryer finished its cycle, but he wanted to change into something more comfortable first.
Walking into his bedroom, he stopped just inside the doorway and stared at the bed. The covers had been hastily pulled up, but he could still see the evidence of what had happened there just hours ago. The depression in the pillows where Sandra's head had rested and the slight wrinkle where their bodies had moved together.
Closing his eyes, he could see her as clearly as if she were still there, naked and writhing beneath him, her skin flushed with desire and soft under his hands. Her warm body had been responsive, perfectly matched to his rhythm, and he'd been consumed with the need to mark her, to make her his, to show her with his body just how much she meant to him. His entire being had been focused on her pleasure, memorizing every moan and gasp, cataloging every way he could bring her to the edge of ecstasy.
He'd never felt that way about anyone else in his life. Certainly not Patricia.
With another heavy sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul, he stepped into his bathroom and immediately came to a halt. Sandra's delicate, floral scent lingered in the air, filling him with longing. He tried to clear his mind, to focus on the practical tasks ahead of him, but all he could see was her scrambling to gather her clothes from the floor while he literally pushed her into this very room to hide.
"Jesus, how did today get so fucked?" he muttered to the empty space, his voice echoing off the tile walls.
After changing into loose pajama bottoms and a clean T-shirt, he went through the final rituals of the evening. Peeking inon the kids to assure they were tucked in and asleep. Checking that the dryer had finished its cycle and folding the warm clothes before laying them on the bench. Finally, he climbed into bed with his back propped against the headboard, his phone cradled in his hands like a lifeline.
He wanted to call Sandra again. Wanted to hear her voice and bridge the distance that seemed to have opened between them during their earlier conversation. But her words from tonight kept playing in his head on an endless loop.
"I'll talk to you sometime this week."
The phrase felt like a wall built between them. "Fuck that," he whispered into the darkness of his bedroom, his voice carrying a determination that surprised him.
He wouldn't call tonight because she'd said she was tired, and he'd already put her through enough. But no way in hell was he waiting until sometime during the week to hear from her. Tomorrow, he would call her. Soon, they would talk this through properly, without the weight of his children's disappointment and his ex-wife's unexpected appearance clouding everything.
And next weekend, Sandra would meet Emma and Toby. It was time to stop keeping his worlds separate and start building something that could encompass all the people who mattered to him.
9
As Sandra sat in her cluttered office, the afternoon light no longer showed dust motes but painted weak shadows across her desk. Sandra wondered if she'd been naive to think she and Terry were ready to move further in their relationship. They hadn’t had an in-depth discussion about his ex-wife yet, and she’d never met his kids.Maybe we just tried to push things too fast.
Her phone buzzed against the desk, displaying a text from Cedric McCalister's office. The commonwealth attorney was ready to see her about a case.
The commonwealth attorney's office occupied the top floor of the courthouse, a world away from Legal Aid's meager quarters. Sandra knocked on the heavy oak door and entered to find Cedric behind his imposing desk, his silver hair perfectly styled despite the late hour. DTF Detectives Jeremy Pickett and Pete Bolton sat in the leather chairs facing him, their expressions neutral but alert.
