Sloane snorts, slapping her palm against the table. “The Big O strikes again.”
Despite myself, a laugh slips free.
“I am so sorry,” Rina mutters, dropping her face into her hands. “It won’t happen again. I’ll make sure of it. Please don’t move to Laiken’s just to get away from us.”
“I’m not. Honestly, I think it’ll be good.” I hesitate before adding, “Plus, you two probably need some space.”
Sloane’s grin turns wicked. “Understatement of the year.”
The conversation drifts after that. There’s lots of teasing and laughter. I cradle my mug between my palms, letting the heat seep into my fingers, simply content to enjoy the moment.
When my phone buzzes, I pull it from my pocket, hoping there’s not a problem with Elody. My mood crashes as soon as the unknown number flashes across the screen.
Unknown number:
I know what your end game is. You’re insane if you think I’m going to let some baby mama bleed me dry after I hit the NHL next year. Show me proof it’s gone, or I’ll make sure you regret this decision.
The world narrows to the message until it blurs on the screen. My fingers tighten around the mug as fear creeps in. The fact he assumes I’m scheming hurts. That my worth begins and ends with what I can take from him.
How was I so wrong about this guy?
Without replying, I delete the text and slide my phone back into my pocket.
Around me, the bakery is alive with laughter, easy chatter, and the steady flow of customers. Only now do I realize that whatever peace I thought running away would bring me, it was never going to be that easy.
16
Laiken
By the time I make it up from the parking garage, my shoulders feel like they’re carrying an extra twenty pounds. Practice was good; hard in a way that usually clears my head. But that never quite happened today. Knox nearly killed us both on the way home, and Oliver’s comments have been looping through my brain the entire day.
As soon as the elevator doors slide open, the first thing that hits me is the aroma.
Tomato. Garlic. Butter.
It smells distinctly of a home-cooked meal.
For just a second, I linger in the entryway, content to soak it in. Even when Sarah lived here, she didn’t cook. I can’t remember coming home to a place that smelled like this. And my parents weren’t the kind to spend time in the kitchen either. Our home was more of a fend-for-yourself kind of place.
Soft strains of music flow from deep within the penthouse. It’s something acoustic with the happy buzz of chatter layered over it.
Already I can hear my little girl talking a mile a minute as Kia responds on cue.
I toe off my shoes and move farther inside, spotting Elody perched at the kitchen island, golden hair a wild halo around her head, markers scattered like confetti across the marble. Kia stands next to her, elbow on the counter, chin propped in her hand, listening to whatever Elody is saying with an expression of rapt interest.
The scene hits me like a physical blow.
This.
This is exactly what I pictured years ago when Sarah and I talked about having a family. A warm kitchen. Food cooking on the stove. My daughter talking about her day while a woman watches with an affectionate expression.
It’s the only thing I ever wanted that didn’t involve the ice.
And here it is. Except the woman in front of me isn’t the one I married. She’s the one I have no business wanting.
“Daddy!” Elody spots me first and launches herself off the stool. “Look! Look what we made!”
Kia straightens as Elody rockets into the hall, crumbs at the corners of her lips, blue marker on her fingers. She’s never looked happier.
