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But that doesn’t stop Scar from tracing her fingers over the back of my neck, or running them through the ends of my hair. And it doesn’t stop me from sliding my hands down and relishing in the soft gasp that Scarlett lets out as my fingers graze the stars on the back pockets of her jeans.

I’m barely touching her, but, for a moment, I worry I’ve pushed too far. Scarlett holds my gaze as she runs her tongue over her lip, then arches herself into my touch.

Fuck. This is so perfect. She is so perfect.

18

Scarlett

Killian’s hand is on my ass (Killian’s. Hand. Is. On. My. ASS!!!!!) which means we both feel my phone buzzing in my pocket. Panic flares through me. Is something wrong with the kids?

He must think the same thing and plucks it out before I even finish the thought. He sees the screen first, and I can tell from the way his eyes harden that it’s not my parents calling. I take the phone and decline Dom’s video call, opening our text thread instead. It’s a sorry sight—pictures and updates about the kids from me, with the odd thumbs up from the man who contributed half of their DNA and nothing else. I can feel Killian processing the message history, or lack thereof on Dom’s side, as I type out a message, but I’ve spent years making excuses for Dom, and I can’t do it anymore. Not that Killian would buy it, anyway.

Hey! The kids are with my parents tonight. We can video call tomorrow?

I watch as the typing bubbles pop up and disappear. And then the screen lights up again with Dom’s face. I squeeze my phone, sighing. I guess this is what I get for dancing with Killian like I’m just a woman, and he’s just a man, and the threads between us aren’t a tangled fucking mess.

“I should take this. If I decline, he’ll keep calling. I’m sorry,” I say, pulling away from him without looking at his face. I know the anger that will be painted in his eyes.

The air is biting cold when I make it outside through the throngs of dancers, just in time to answer Dom’s call before it goes to voicemail.

“Hi. Did you get my text?” My boots crunch on the frosty sidewalk, the cold tickling my nose. If I had it to spare, I would put money on it snowing tonight.

“Hey. Yeah, I got it.”

Then why the hell are you calling?

I take a deep breath. “Well, if you want to talk to the kids, you can call my mom. They’re probably asleep, though.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’ll call tomorrow, or in a few days.” If I couldn’t talk to my kids, I’d be desperate to catch them at the next possible moment, not “in a few days”. But I’m not Dom.

“Right. Sure. Just let me know when you’re aroun— Oh, shit. Sorry.” I jump out of the way when someone opens the bar door, flooding the street with music, laughter, and the stinging smell of alcohol. I skip across the road to a little island in the middle of the parking lot, with a couple of trees and log benches, so I’m out of the way.

“Where are you?” Dom asks.

“Grizzly’s. The bar? It’s Country Christmas Night.” I hold my free arm across my body. I left my jacket in Killian’s car, and I wish I’d thought to get his keys before coming out here.

“You’re at a bar? Who with?” There’s an edge to Dom’s tone that I don’t like.

I should tell him I’m here with Piper and leave it at that, but his implication gets my back up. “That’s really none of your business.”

Dom is silent for a moment before scoffing. “None of my business? You abandoned my kids to run off to a bar with god knows who and it’s none of my business?”

“I didn’t abandon them. They’re with my parents!” I reply, raising my voice. How dare he accuse me of abandoning anyone?

“I don’t give a shit, Scarlett. You shouldn’t be leaving them with anyone so you can go out and fucking party. What kind of mom does that?”

His words hit me like a punch right in the chest. What kind of mom, indeed? Caitlin and James love sleepovers with my parents, but I could be doing so much with this time. Picking up an extra night shift, so I could buy them more winter clothes, or pay for Caitlin to get riding lessons. Cleaning. Meal prepping. Going through this week’s sales and clipping coupons. There are so many things I could be doing, instead of dancing in a bar with their half-brother, for crying out loud.

“What? You have nothing to say to that?” Dom asks, his voice icier than the night.

“I’m a good mom. I’m allowed one night off.” I don’t know whether I’m trying to convince him or me, but my watery reply does neither.

Dom’s answering laugh is humorless. “Parenting doesn’t come with nights off.”

I want to scream at him. What the hell does he know about parenting? He sure hasn’t done any with our kids, and according to Killian, he’s never been “Dad of the Year”.

“They’re happy, Dom. It’s one night,” I defend myself, even if I don’t believe it. He might hear in my voice how much his words have affected me, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of saying it.