His stubby tail wags happily before he leisurely wanders over to his bed and plops down, resting his head on his favorite stuffed animal, seemingly exhausted. Or maybe just content to hand off the protection duties he takes so seriously to someone else for the night.
Halfway down the stairs, I find the girls, and I swear to God something primal wraps around my chest as I look at them.
Both of them.
My girls.
Mine.
Kyrie sleeps soundly in her swing. The pink stuffed dinosaur, wearing a black Philadelphia Kings jersey Dad gave her, is tucked neatly next to her and is nearly as big as she is. I’m surprised they both fit in the swing.
The little sleeping princess is wearing a purple and white polka dot pajama set that Mom dropped off last week because my parents have anointed themselves grandparents, whether they admit it or not. Hell, I’d be surprised if one of them hasn’t already set up a college fund at this rate.
And as much as watching this little girl sleep relaxes me, it also triggers something within me I’ve never felt before. Not like this. Not even with Rosie. This kid owns me already. In just the few months she’s been here, she claimed my heart like no one ever has. She’s not mine. But I want her to be. I want to be the person who chases away all her bad dreams and future asshole boyfriends. I want to be more than the goofy guy whose house she lives in.
For her and her big sister.
And I know I’m done ignoring this thing between us.
Ashton demands my attention simply by breathing. She’s completely absorbed in the music as she moves gracefully around the room, oblivious to my presence. Turning and jumping. Extending her beautifully sculpted legs. Muscular and powerful and so damn pretty. A cherry red sweater falls off one bare shoulder, hitting her at the waist, but not covering any of her perfect ass cupped in tiny black bootie shorts. And her hair—fuck, I love this woman’s hair. It whips around her face as she spins, extending her leg, then doing a little twirl thing until she reaches the same point on the floor and does it again and again and again. So many times, I lose track before the song comes to an end, and my beautiful girl plants one leg behind her and extends her arms up and at her side. Her gorgeous gold-fleckedeyes meet mine in the reflection, and fuck, her lip wobbles, and my heart crumbles.
“Don’t, Ashton. Don’t say anything. Not yet. Just hear me out.” I cross the room, closing the distance between us, and gather her face in my hands, fighting to find the right words. The ones that will force her to listen more and argue less. “You and me?—”
“There is no you and me, Murphy.” She’s resigned, but she’s wrong. So fucking wrong.
“There is,” I argue gently, careful not to push her too hard. Not yet. “There’s been a you and me our entire lives, Ashton. There was a you and me before we were old enough to even know what it meant.”
“Jamie...” She sighs. “I don’t even know what that means now. You hate me...” She licks her lips nervously, trailing off. “And I hate you.”
Her words are meant to hurt. They’re meant to hit. But they don’t. Not now. Because they’re weak. They’re an excuse. One we’ve used for years. One I’m tired of.
“I’ve never hated you, Ace. I didn’t hate you when you used to bug me to explain what was happening during our dads’ games.”
She looks away. “I still don’t understand false start.”
And I doubt she ever will.
“I didn’t hate you when you used to cry to me that Evan was blowing up your Barbie dolls. I might not have told you I was with him when he did it either, but that was self-preservation.” I force her eyes back up to mine. “I didn’t hate you when I used to bring flowers to your recitals before you left for Chicago...”
“You never even looked at me after those recitals. You’d stand there behind Evan and Finn, looking bored to tears. You didn’t even want to be there. Just stood there, holding those flowers?—”
“Pink peonies,” I stop her. “I was holding pink peonies.”
“What?” she asks, confused by the force behind my words.
“They were always pink peonies. When I gave you a bouquet of them for your last recital in Maryland, you told me they were your favorite.” I remember the damn day like it was yesterday, even if I was barely a teenager back then. “Mom picked up two bouquets. One for me and one for Finn. She always did that. She said you never go watch someone perform without bringing flowers. You were in one of those starchy-looking pink tutus. The kind that stand straight out. A sparkly silver crown was pinned into your hair. And my bouquet matched your tutu. They were pink and white peonies. Dark ones and pale ones. I know because after you said they were your favorite, I asked Mom what they were. I wanted to make sure I knew. I needed to know.” I brush my thumb along her jaw, silently begging her to hear me. “You didn’t say the same thing to Finn.”
“Daisies . . .” she whispers.
“What?”
“Finn always brings daisies. Even now, when he comes to a performance in Chicago, he brings daisies.” She wraps her fingers around my wrists. “Always daisies.”
“Why does he bring daisies, Ashton?” I’m not sure why I feel like this is such an important moment, but I feel it in my fucking bones, and my gut has never steered me wrong before, so I push. “Why?”
“Because Evan and Finn always thought they were my favorite.” She blinks back a tear. “Why does it matter what kind of flowers they were?”
God, how does she not see it? “Because if I was bringing you flowers, I wanted to bring you your favorites. I didn’t want to assume. I wanted to get it right. I wanted your real smile. I didn’t want them to just be good enough.”
