Page 106 of Made for Mayhem

It was impossible to look at Ty Hudson and not see how much he loved that little girl. It was written in every gesture, every word. The way he carried her when she was tired. How he always remembered to wash her purple plate, so it was ready for the next meal. He’d even let her paint his toenails last week, sporting bright pink nails for all to see.

It was simple, really. Junie loved him. He loved her. And if my chest ached at that, maybe it was because I knew exactly how she felt.

Because I loved the way he was with her. And I loved the way he was with me.

It was too easy to say I only liked him because he was good with Junie. That it was gratitude, or admiration, or some grief-shaped hole he’d filled. But that wasn’t true.

I liked him three years ago, back when he was just some stranger on the street. He had that same dry sense of humor, that calm, quiet steadiness that always seemed to cut through my chaos.

And now? Now he was all of that, multiplied.

He was thoughtful without trying to be. He was patient in ways I couldn’t understand, never rushing, never demanding. He didn’t step in and take control; he just stood by, waiting to help when you needed it most.

Sometime in the last few weeks together, I’d fallen for him.

I traced my fingers through Junie’s hair again, the soft rhythm of it soothing and steady.

I didn’t a little bit want this.

I very much wanted this.

That was the problem.

Because if this moved forward with Ty—and I really, really wanted it to—what happened if it went sideways? How could I ever leave? How could I break something that made Junie this happy?

The thought hollowed out my chest. I leaned down and pressed one more kiss to her forehead before standing, tugging the blanket higher around her shoulders.

“Night, cutie,” I whispered. “I love you.”

I shut her door quietly, easing out into the hall. The rest of the house was dark. Only one light was still on, a soft golden pool spilling from the kitchen at the end of the hall.

I hesitated for half a second, tugging at the hem of the Mayhem hoodie I still wore. It was big enough to hit mid-thigh, hiding the fact that my shorts and T-shirt underneath were long gone to comfort after a day in the sun. But right now, I didn’t want comfort.

The air smelled faintly of wood smoke and pine, a scent that seemed to linger in every crevice of this house. I padded down the hall, quiet enough not to wake Junie, my heart thudding a steady rhythm.

When I rounded the corner, I found him exactly where I knew he’d be—sitting on the end of the sofa, waiting for me.

One arm was stretched along the back cushion, a drink loose in his other hand. His hat was on the coffee table, his dark hair sticking up in messy tufts after a long day. The lamplight from the kitchen spilled over him, catching on the edge of his mustache and the hard line of his jaw. His shorts rode up enough to show the tattoos on his thighs—bold black ink against tan skin, teasing at the hem every time he shifted.

And those eyes. Hazel, warm, and focused on me.

I couldn’t look away if I tried.

Ty Hudson was gorgeous. Not in a polished, magazine-cover way—but in the real kind. The kind that crept up on you, steady and unassuming, until suddenly you realized your heart was in your throat.

His eyes flicked over my bare legs before meeting my gaze, then pointed his beer at me.

“Are you done avoiding me?” he asked, voice low, that little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I crossed my arms, leaning against the wall. “Who says I was avoiding you?”

He lifted his can to take a sip, and the label caught the light.

Daisy Cutter.

The same one I’d ordered in a dingy little bar in Chicago, on a night I’d remember forever. It felt like a lifetime ago, and yet here he was, always remembering every little thing about me.

Any hesitation I had about what came next vanished.