She shakes her head. “Not always. And I’m not a parent, but I have two really good ones. And I know this—you’re a good dad.”
Ah, hell. That feeling in my chest? It’s like sunshine. It’s like fucking rainbows. “Yeah?” I sound like a dopey fool.
She squeezes my thigh. “Agreatdad. But you don’t have to be Super Dad.”
Is that what I’m trying to do? “I don’t know. I think I do.”
“I can tell. But clearly your parents don’t see themselves as babysitters. They see themselves as partners.”
My throat tightens. “You’re right. They stepped up when I needed them to. But…I don’t think I see them that way—as babysitters. Do I?”
“Sometimes,” she says gently. “You worry if you’re not the one with Mia. If you’re not the one picking her up, or putting her to bed. But your parents don’t justwantto pitch in. Theylovehelping raise Mia. That’s how they see it, Rowan. I haven’t even met them, but I believe it deep in my heart.”
“Why?” I ask, like I’m reaching for a lifeline. Maybe this conversation is one after all.
“Because of Mia. She wouldn’t be this confident, curious, outspoken kid if she didn’t grow up surrounded by love.”
Fuck. I could get addicted to the way she talks. The way sheseespeople. And suddenly I realize—I’ve been neglecting Isla in the middle of all this. “You’re staying tonight,” I say, a little too forcefully.
She laughs, rolling her eyes. “Obviously.”
I clear my throat. “Let me try that again.”
I pull her into my lap, brush her hair off her neck, and layer kisses there on her soft, sweetly scented skin. “Want me to turn on the fireplace and fuck you in front of it while ‘White Christmas’plays?”
She mimes hitting a buzzer. “Yes, please.”
I kiss her lips, then whisper, “It’s a deal.”
But before I get too caught up, she pushes me away with a grin. “I believe I was promised eggplant parmesan. Get to it.”
“If you insist.”
“I do, Rowan. I do.”
She sounds relaxed. Happy. Shelooksit, too, as she stretches out on the couch now with Wanda, petting her with one hand, her glass of Chablis in the other, gaze on the window, watching the snow fall. I should feel bad for not being with Mia and my family. But this thing with Isla—it’s starting to feel somehow, some way, like it’s making me a better dad. A better man. I didn’t set out for that to happen. Somewhere along the way though maybe it did.
Maybe tonight doesn’t have to be a one-time thing.
That thought chases me as I finish the dinner prep. It joins other, newer ideas as I set out some olives in a small ceramic snowman dish.
Isla sighs contentedly, then turns her focus toward me. “Can I help?”
I shake my head. “I like looking at you watching the snow.”
“You do?” She sounds skeptical, and I have to remember—Isla has trust issues, just like me.
“I do. I know you want to help—it’s in your nature. But you’re my snow angel. This is your night. Just enjoy it.”
The second those words leave my mouth, an idea starts to form. It’s just clay right now, shapeless. But there’s something there.
Snow. Isla.
Isla. Snow.
As Isla stares out the window, listening to music, petting Wanda, chatting with me—she’s relaxed. Not making a list. Not solving someone else’s problems. Not holding it all together.
Justbeing.
