She has part of her hair in a messy bun to keep it out of her eyes, the rest falling down her back. She’s wearing a cute yellow shirt and black-and-white-checked pants.
“You’re beyond beautiful,” I tell her.
I swallow hard when she shields her eyes with her hand and smiles at me.
“Thank you,” she says softly.
We eat while we watch the waves.
“Should we take a walk down the beach?” I ask.
She jumps when her phone rings.
“Oh, sorry. That’s Christian.” She answers it. “Hello?” I watch as her face clouds and she opens her mouth to speak several times, but he must keep talking. Her jaw clenches. “I’m coming now.”
She glances at me apologetically, and I nod, already standing up and gathering our things.
“No, Christian. You should’ve called me sooner. Get her things ready.”
She hangs up, and her hands are shaking when she tries to help me put our things away.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “Chloe hasn’t stopped crying. He thinks maybe she has a fever.”
“Please don’t be sorry. She’s the reason you’re here.” I fold the blanket and set it on top of the cooler.
We start our trek to my Jeep. It’s the fastest I’ve ever made it up that staircase.
“I’m happy to take you, but you can also take the Jeep if you want to do this on your own,” I say, once we’ve reached my vehicle. “I can get a ride, no problem.”
“I’d really appreciate it if you drove,” she says.
“On it.”
She pulls up the address, and we’re not far. It’d take twice as long if it were a weekend or the end of the day, but we’re at his house within fifteen minutes. It’s a nice house, about five minutes from mine and at least double the size.
I pull in front of the house and am surprised when she grabs my hand.
“Come with me, please.”
“Gladly,” I tell her.
I jog around and put my hand on the small of her back as we walk to the door. She rings the doorbell, and a girl who looks a little younger than Dahlia and me opens the door, looking frazzled. The sound of crying comes from a distant room.
“Thank God.” The girl slumps against the doorway. She yells over her shoulder, “Christian, she’s here!”
Dahlia moves past her, and I’m not sure whether to follow or not, so I stay put. The girl turns to look at me, and she straightens.
“Hey,” she says. “Who are you?”
“Dylan—”
“Hello, Dylan,” she says, grinning.
The way she purred my name is a little unsettling, but I step inside.
The crying stops, and Dahlia walks back into the room holding the cutest little girl I’ve ever seen. Her hair is dark and curly, and her eyes are darker than her mom’s, but she still looks like her mini-me. Her face is red and wet with tears. Chloe’s head rests on her mom’s shoulder as she takes hiccup breaths. Behind Dahlia is a man I’m assuming is Christian. He’s holding a pink suitcase, and his eyes narrow when he sees me standing there.
“Who are you?” His tone isn’t as friendly as the girl’s.
