“See you in a few.” If I stay out here with her, I’ll end up doing or saying something stupid to ruin the moment. Better to cut this off on a high note.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sam
Iget Mr. Bingley settled into his bed after checking his paws for damage. He must’ve been absolutely sprinting around, and I’m sure Poppy’s chase only increased his distance. Sweet girl, wanting to save him. I should ask Grant if they can come play with Mr. Bingley some time.
Grant.
Someone have mercy on me, because what am I supposed to do with this man? How am I supposed to watch him literally race to find his child, hold her close and not tear into her like my mother would’ve done, and then witness him carryingbothgirls back like some kind of superhuman sexiest dad on Earth situation come to life.What!?
I was this close to saying something completely stupid like, “Gee, you’re super strong.” Thank goodness I didn’t. Nor did I voice the other thoughts that crept in like,man you could really toss a girl around, couldn’t you?
Now he wants me to join them for hot chocolate, and it’s no big deal. It’s really not.
And yet, there’s still a flutter of anticipation in my chest.
A few minutes later, I knock on the front door to the main house and Grant pulls it open.
My breath catches because he is problematically good-looking and there is no avoiding that reality right now.
It has to be the aftermath of him carrying the kids and being so sweet to them. It’s some primal thing happening here where I recognize he could keep me and our children alive and my instincts are saying,choose this one! He’ll keep humanity thriving!
“How’s Mr. Bingley?” Amusement flickers across his face when he says the name.
He closes the door behind me, and I bend to pull off my boots. They’re a pair I found at the thrift store, and I’ve never been more grateful for good footwear. LA never got cold enough to warrant snow boots, so I came ill-prepared. Thankfully, I’ve been able to pick up lots of shifts at Jerry’s and people in town have been generous with tips.
“He’s disgruntled, but good. I’m sorry, again. He never even attempted to escape in LA, but it’s like he knows there’s actual nature outside instead of concrete here.” I wrestle with my winter coat. The sleeves are a touch tight since I layered it over a hoodie and a waffle-knit long-sleeved shirt.
“Let me.” He steps around me and guides the jacket off one arm, then the other. “We’ll put it right here so it’s ready for you whenever you need it.”
I blink, his words striking me as oddly purposeful, but I can’t tell why. Our eyes are locked into each other, his gorgeous blue gaze darker in the dim light of the hallway. “Thanks.”
“Let’s get you warmed up,” he says, right as I scrub my hands along my upper arms.
We move down a long hallway painted a pleasant olive green color with large, framed photos on either side. The girls, him and the girls, two people I don’t recognize who must be their parents…
Gah, there it is. This thing that disarms me about him every time. Some hint of what they’ve all been through, and it just skewers me.
“Are these Lily and Poppy’s…” I realize sayingparentsfeels wrong. He’s clearly their parent.
“Yes. Their mom and dad.” His jaw flexes as he looks at a photo of a handsome man with blond hair in a military uniform, his arms around a woman with a pixie cut of bright pink hair in a long, flowing dress. “My best friends.”
“I’m sorry.” It’s probably not the right thing to say, but I don’t know what is.
His attention shifts to me and he studies my face for a moment. Right when self-consciousness threatens to creep in, his chin dips slightly. “Me, too.”
“Daddy, can I have more marshmallows?” Poppy’s voice rings and cuts through the moment.
His mouth tugs up into a half smile on one side and he raises his brows. “Urgent business in the kitchen.”
I grin and follow him. A left turn at the end of the hallway takes us into a bright, airy kitchen with beautiful Baltic blue cabinetry and a light gray stone countertop. The girls sit at a low bar on stools with backs, and they both swing around when we enter.
“Are you having marshmallows with your hot chocolate, Miss Sam?” Lily asks, a hot chocolate mustache in full force on her sweet little face.
“Definitely.”
Grant helps both girls refill their marshmallows, then uses a ladle to dip out what I now realize is homemade hot chocolate from a small copper pot on the stove.
