But I can’t help the burst of excitement at the merest chance that I might see that big, burly beast of a man again.
CHAPTER7
77 DAYS TO CHRISTMAS
Ronan
It’sthe dayof the private art lesson with Poppy. And it begins with another elaborate hairstyle request. This time, Belle wants two bun circle things at the top of her head that remind me of Princess Leia. I curse whatever nanny she had in the past who gave her ridiculously high grooming standards. But mastering this has become my challenge, my point of pride, my own white whale. I didn’t master jujitsu, mixed martial arts, Muay Thai, and earn a black belt in karate because I’m a quitter. The ability to dedicate myself to a single goal is one of my biggest strengths.
Plus, I’m good with hand-eye coordination and following complex instructions, which are important for both martial arts and following YouTube hairstyle tutorials. Who knew the two topics intersected so well?
When I’m finished, Belle looks in the mirror, turning her head this way and that to judge how well I’ve executed the style. “It will do,” she pronounces.
Joy and relief run through me at her grudging approval, as if I’ve passed a critical test. This hobby is getting out of hand.
When the doorbell rings at 10:00 a.m., I’m doing bench presses in the makeshift gym I set up in the large and airy downstairs guest room. Belle runs down the stairs, screaming, “I’ve got it!”
Belle yanks open the front door as I walk out of the gym. I should have timed this better. I’m covered in sweat in a sleeveless workout shirt and gym shorts. Not exactly presentable.
Poppy stands at the threshold. Her hair is burnished copper in the golden morning light surrounding her. She steals my breath more forcefully than a punch to the gut. The light rims her body, emphasizing the surprising lushness of her petite frame. I want to trace every curve.
“You’re here!” Belle cries.
Poppy smiles at my daughter, and then her gaze wanders to me. It stops in the vicinity of my exposed arms. I resist the urge to flex.
“Hi.” I run a hand through my sweaty hair. Damn, I need a shower. Maybe she’s not silent with admiration. Maybe it’s disgust. “Sorry. I’m just finishing my workout.”
She blinks and then shakes her head, snapping to attention.
She turns back to Belle. “Good morning, little one. I’m excited too. I love your hair.”
“Thank you. Father did it.”
Poppy looks surprised.
I shrug.
“He can do all the fancy styles. I bet he could do your hair,” Belle adds.
Poppy blushes. “Oh. Um. I think your dad has better things to do.”
“Hair’s my new superpower,” I say. And then I want to cut out my tongue. A year ago, my superpower was kicking ass without breaking a sweat—on a movie set, of course. Now, I’m bragging about mastering children’s hairstyles. Becoming a dad has turned me into someone I hardly recognize.
I grab the easels and large bag she’s barely balancing.
“Where do you want to set these up?” I ask.
She steps into the entryway and looks beyond it, at the large living room that leads into an open-plan kitchen. “Maybe by the windows? It’s so beautiful,” she says, admiring the lake view. “I’ve always wondered what it was like in here. I saw it once when I was a kid in an open house. I knew the last owners renovated it, but I hadn’t realized they’d made so many changes.” Her eyes scan the rooms, seeming to miss no detail. “It seems more modern and…emptier than I remember.”
I look around, seeing it through her eyes for the first time. She’s not wrong. The walls are bare. So are all the surfaces. It’s pristine, but there’s an abandoned feel to the house. Any personal touches are Belle’s. A doll on the counter. Coloring book on the table.
“It’s just temporary. We’re only here for a few months until we wrap just before Christmas. This will do for now.”
“Hmmm.” She doesn’t look convinced. Her attention moves to setting up the easels.
“I thought we could do a still life with watercolors today,” she addresses Belle. “And since you are new to Snowflake Harbor, we can paint a snowflake.”
“Of course,” I mutter.
