Page 44 of Freefall

“Why are you whispering?”

“I know you’re there. Open the door, Harper.”

Shit. “I gotta go, Grace.”

“What?” she screeches. “You’re seriously going to leave me hanging⁠—”

“Iloveyoubye,” I hurry out and end the call before she can say anything else.

I glance down the hallway, considering what it would look like for me to climb out of the bathroom window that leads to the backyard when there’s another knock.

Oh, for Goddess’s sake.

“Maybe if you asked nicely,” I yell through the door.

“Harper.”

I’m sure my name has been used as a warning by other people in my life, but nothing quite compares to the way Nathan Caldwell says it. It’s not just a warning—it’s a freaking bomb siren.

Before I can think better of it, I whip the door open only to be flooded with déjà vu. Nate is standing on my doorstep, heaving and angry, a full-on storm raging in his eyes.

“What?” I snap.

“You said you wouldn’t keep her from me.”

My arms cross automatically, without even thinking. How does he always manage to bring out this side of me? “I changed my mind.”

I’m honestly shocked it took him this long to show up. I sent that text almost twenty-four hours ago. It said delivered but not read, so I wasn’t sure if he had even seen it.

He steps across the threshold, and there it is. Another boundary erased. He’s standing in my living room now, his dominating presence so familiar it makes my chest ache.

“You know what I can’t seem to figure out?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” I snark as I open a cupboard and pull out a mug and the ceramic tea kettle my mom got me as a “welcome home” present.

“I stared at that text all fucking night, and I still don’t understand how it’s possible,” he goes on.

“How what’s possible?” I fill the black-and-white kettle with tap water.

“How you have the audacity to be mad at me.”

I sigh, and he suddenly seems to realize he’s standing in the middle of my kitchen. He scans the room, his expression filling with regret.

“She’s not here,” I say, anticipating his next question. “She’s with my parents. They went to the harvest festival about an hour ago. Do you really think I would be having this conversation in front of her?”

“No, but I also didn’t think you were capable of hiding my own kid from me.”

The words are meant to be harsh, but that doesn’t make them any less true. He’s right. I didn’t tell him about Daisy. I gave up.

I turn on the stove burner, set the kettle on top, and try to open the tea container. It doesn’t budge.

A frustrated grunt escapes me as I squeeze the top and twist, but it still won't open. I’m about to take a crowbar to it when warm hands push mine away. Nate opens the container with the practiced ease of a man who has never struggled with a kitchen receptacle in his life. He drops the top on the counter, and it clatters before going still.

“I could have done it myself.”

“Seemed that way.”

His words may be sarcastic, but his tone doesn’t match. It’s too measured.