Every time she does this to Hannah, I wonder what I ever saw in her. Her beauty is only skin deep, and the fact that I didn’t see that until it was too late says a lot more about me than it does about her.
I’m a horrible judge of character.
"She hung up?" Elle asks. She's sitting beside me on the couch, Hannah curled up next to her, fast asleep.
I nod and take a deep breath, refusing to let Meghan ruin my mood. “Let me take Hannah to her room. Then we can talk.”
“Let me,” Elle offers, scooping Hannah into her arms in one smooth motion before standing.
Ten minutes later, she walks back into the den, massaging her neck, which tells me that Hannah must’ve woken up and Elle lay down next to her until she drifted off again.
"Cal," she begins, her tone sober. "Hannah just called me Mommy. She was half-asleep, and must’ve thought I was Meghan. My heart melted."
"Do you mind it?" I ask.
"No, of course not," she says, shaking her head. "But I’m sure Meghan would."
"If Meghan were really a mother to Hannah, even half-asleep, she’d never mistake someone else for her."
"How can Meghan be so indifferent to her?"
"That’s a question I’ve been asking myself since the day Hannah was born," I admit.
"It made me a little sad," she says softly. "I’m not gonna lie."
"Come here and sit down," I say.
When she does, I straighten and begin massaging her neck and shoulders.
She closes her eyes and leans into my touch. “Mmm,” she says. “That hurts so good. I think you missed your calling. You could’ve charged top dollar as a massage therapist.”
I brush her hair aside and press a kiss to the curve of her neck. She smells incredible—fresh and inviting, the kind of scent that wraps around me and lingers.
“These hands were made to touch just one woman from now on,” I whisper in her ear. “The only other thing they’ll ever touch again is cedar, maple, cherry.”
She turns slightly, a slow smile curving her lips. “You’re quite talented, Mr. Callahan.”
She grows quiet for a beat. I glide my thumbs along her shoulders and up the sides of her neck, applying just enough pressure to make her melt into the moment.
"Are you trying to distract me from asking about your relationship with Meghan?" Elle murmurs, her voice teasing.
I let out a breath. "Is it working?"
She gives the faintest smile. "A little."
I glide my thumbs across her shoulders, grounding myself in the motion. "It’s not easy to talk about her. Not because I miss her—I don’t. But because I made a colossal mistake. One I wish I could erase... until I remember that it gave me Hannah."
Elle stays quiet, so I go on.
"The first time I went out with Meghan, it was supposed to be about you. You’d been in the group home for a few months, and the progress... it was slow. I was frustrated. Meghan was supposed to help me understand how to reach you."
I shake my head, pressing into a knot just beneath her shoulder blade. "But she turned it into something else entirely."
"What do you mean?"
"We met at this little café—quiet place, good coffee. I sat down ready to ask a dozen questions: How you were doing, whether you were opening up, if you'd asked about your sister. But Meghan? She gave these vague answers. Told me you'd come around in your own time, that kids like you needed space, not pressure."
I pause. "And then, just like that, the conversation stopped being about you."
