“For breakfast?”
Tomorrow was Saturday and every kid needed to have cake for breakfast at least once in their life. For this little girl, it was a weekly occasion, but Kylie always acted as if it were the first time. After her day, Darcy might even be open to a Saturday Cake Buffett. “Sure, why not.”
“Day old cake is better than right out of the oven cake,” Kylie said dreamily, then laid back down.
With one last kiss, because Darcy could never get enough, she turned off the light and watched Kylie close her eyes.
She wondered if there would ever come a time when Kylie would think it was weird that her mom went to everything—including father only events. That she’d one day notice the lack of male presence in her life.
If things had gone differently, her daughter would have had a really great uncle to look up to in Gage. Five great uncles who would pamper and protect her with the fierce Easton love. It made her question her decision to keep them at a distance all these years. Brought back doubts that maybe she wasn’t enough for Kylie.
She could love her with everything she had to give, but in the end, would it be the same as being surrounded by a family full of love?
Then there was Margo Easton, and the reign of terror that woman had brought down on Darcy.
Humiliation rolled in her stomach at the memory of being arrested in her own home. The cold handcuffs, the judgmental neighbors, the place she’d worked so hard to make safe—it was all destroyed in that moment. And brought Darcy back to her childhood—to a time when her home was a revolving door, and visits to the police station weren’t a school sponsored field trip.
Margo knew,
knew
how Darcy’s neighbors and friends would react to her being taken away in cuffs. Just like she knew that, although Kyle’s was the only name on the lease, the loft had been her home too. Her safe sanctuary away from the memories.
Margo had stolen that from her.
Even worse, Margo had forced her family—the family Darcy had come to consider her own—to abandon Darcy at her lowest point. Her stomach hollowed out whenever she thought back to those first few months. How she’d cried until she had no tears left to give and how, at night, the terrifying loneliness would creep in and take hold.
Every cruel word spoken and every betrayal against Darcy came rushing back.
Nope, the only question Darcy should be asking herself was why she hadn’t moved further away.
Chapter 4
For a guy who was supposed to be the self-appointed spokesman for the Eastons, keeping an eye on the prize instead of Darcy’s ass would have been a smart move. Instead, he was so busy appreciating the heart-shaped perfection pointed in his direction from behind the rose garden, he nearly made a tactical error.
Darcy wasn’t the goal, securing his family’s happiness was. Something his brain had always known, but his heart had a hard time accepting. Gage wasn’t an expert by any means, but he was pretty sure that spark he’d felt the other day was more than just a lingering attraction. Or nostalgia from a happier time.
Reason enough to forgo hand delivering the new offer, and head straight for the mail slot. The envelope contained personal assurances from Rhett about the venue and caliber of personnel he’d be bringing in.
It also included an apology from Gage. Not for Kyle, or his family, or anything that he wasn’t a part of. That wasn’t his place. He just apologized for his behavior yesterday.
It had been a long time since he’d seen her, and while he’d managed to put most of his emotions behind him, after writing that letter—all eleven drafts—the curiosity of what could have been was still strong enough to give him pause.
There was no point in picking up where they left off, especially because when they left off she was about to marry his brother. But there was nothing wrong with taking a moment to enjoy the view. And what a view it was.
Denim clad cheeks, the perfect palm full, attached to a pair of mile-long legs that, at one time, had been a regular co-star in his fantasies. Shit, what was he thinking?
They’d played a pretty significant role in last night’s dream—only they weren’t encased in anything but his sheets—making for one hell of a tense and uncomfortable morning. Reason number one for canceling his lunch meeting and driving out to Belle Mont House. No matter how dangerous seeing her again could be, now that he’d seen her, he couldn’t walk away.
Reason two was sealed in an envelope, burning a hole in his jacket pocket.
Then there was reason three. That look on her face when he’d walked away yesterday. Confused, scared, resigned.
He’d seen her wear that sad as fuck smile before, but he’d never been the cause of it. Until now. And that didn’t sit right. Watching her put on a brave smile in the face of devastation had always called out to every protective instinct he owned, but being the devastating force felt like a sword to the gut.
Gage couldn’t be the guy to light up that smile, but he refused to be another person in her life to cast more shadows.
Letter in hand, he walked up the wide steps of the old Victorian and took the letter out of his pocket. He stuck it in the slot, but immediately pulled it back out and straightened.
“It’s a piece of paper that could change her life,” he said, calling himself all kinds of pussy. “A win-win, asshole, so just drop the offer in the slot and be done with it.”
Only, when he stuck it in the front door, his fingers refused to let go. Why? Because, like the bonehead he was, Gage didn’t want to be done with it. From the beginning, his relationship with Darcy had been a series of unfinished business. And if he slid that letter through the slot, it would be reopening that door—and everything that came with it.
He’d long ago given up on the idea of them, and he didn’t need to tempt fate by opening the door that had been hell to seal.
“Are you looking to get married?”
The letter slipped out of his fingers and Gage spun around. “Holy shi—”
He caught himself before he let a blue streak of adult words run loose, because standing in front of him was no adult. Nope, light brown pigtails, pink tutu, freckles—and a frosting mustache that spoke of a recent sugar fix.
He hadn’t spent enough time around kids to even guess at her age, but this stealth ballerina was travel-sized enough to have him censoring his words.
“‘Cuz, if you’re looking to get married, we’re closed.” With a cute shrug, she pointed over his shoulder to the antique Closed sign on the door behind him.
Gage peered down through the glass panes of the ornate door to the envelope sitting on the marble entry, casually laying between the water bill and an ad for a free carpet cleaning, and his stomach rolled. He tried the door. Locked.
He tried it harder—still locked.
Shit.
“Do you get paid to sneak up on customers?” he asked, wondering if he could slip his arm in the slot and get the envelope back. Because now that he didn’t have a choice, he knew he’d made the wrong one.
“My mommy says I’m light on my feet,” she said, swaying from side to side. “It’s what makes me a good dancer.”
To prove her point, she put her hands over her head and did some kind of complicated turn with a few feet-stomping actions in there. Gage thought maybe it was ballet with some tap thrown in. But what the hell did he know about dance?
“Nice.” Eyes back on the envelope, he knelt down and pushed the mail flap open. His hands were so big he couldn’t even squeeze them past the knuckles. It was like the Hulk trying to get the last Pringle.
Tiny stood behind him, watching over his shoulder, her hot cake breath on the back of his neck making his palms sweat.
“You know what else makes a good dancer?” There was no point in answering, the girl was already talking again. “Glitter.”
A tiny hand flew in front of his face, then did some sort of shimmering movement, which, the girl was right—the early summer sun glistened off her pink sparkly fingernails. Her teeny, tiny, could-fit-inside-the-mail-slot fingers.
Gage straightened, then smiled. Tiny smiled back.
“You’re a ballerina, aren’t you? Yeah, I could tell. I saw this documentary on ballerinas a few years back. They were dressed like you, minus the sparkles though. Real athletes, those women. And they talked about being light on their feet—”
“What’s a documentary?”
A throbbing started behind his right eye. “You know, like a movie or a TV show, but it teaches you things.”
“Like Angelina Ballerina?”
“Yeah, like that,” he said and,
great
, now he was lying to small children. “Anyway, they said that although feet were important, it was also about the arms. Ballerina’s needed to have small arms.” He thought about what kind of complex
that
might give a growing girl, then added, “Small but strong arms, that can fit in small, tight places.”
She crinkled her nose. “Like through a hoop?”
“Sure.” He looked at the mail slot. “Or tight spaces like that. Can you reach through there?”
“Ah huh,” she said, but instead of fetching him the letter, she took off giggling down the stairs.
“Hey, Tiny,” Gage called after her. “Where are you going?”
“To get my mom and tell her you’re trying to steal her mail.”
Shit!
At least she wasn’t fetching her dad to tell him some crazy creeper was asking about her small arms. “It’s not her mail, well the top one isn’t. It’s mine. I accidently dropped it in the slot without, ah, signing it.”
Tiny stopped at the bottom step, turned back around, and gave him a look that implied she thought he was full of shit. And he was. But he was also desperate. “Can you help me? No point in giving a letter if it isn’t signed.”
He watched her consider her options: help the stranger or run for help. And just when he thought she was going to walk on the wild side, her eyes drifted to the right—not to the house where her mom, the cook or maybe the cute assistant he’d met the other day was—but to the rose garden, where Darcy was holding a bouquet of roses, pink like Tiny’s tutu, her face frozen in horror.
Everything in his brain seemed to freeze, unable to put together the logical pieces, as he stood paralyzed on the porch of Darcy’s house.
Her home, she’d called it.
Darcy called out, most likely to her little girl, because Tiny turned her head back toward Gage, and when he met those piercing blue eyes head on, his heart stopped—right there in his chest. It gave one hard thump of recognition, then nothing.
Time slowed, rewound to a place where every pain felt fresh, raw, so insurmountable he had to question if what he saw, and what he felt, lined up. It was as if his entire body was holding its breath, waiting for his mind and his heart to search all of the implications, all of the possibilities, and come up with an answer that made sense.
The cute nose, caramel ringlets, and dusting of freckles were all Darcy’s. But those eyes—and this was where the anger made way for anguish—
Jesus,
those eyes were Easton blue. Filled with excitement and mischief and a little bit of attitude. Even that crooked smile, which said she knew she was in trouble for talking to a stranger but it was worth it, was all Kyle.
A feeling too difficult to articulate and so unfamiliar overwhelmed him as he struggled to get his emotions under control.
“Hey, Tiny. You never told me your name,” he managed past the lump in his throat.
Tiny looked over her shoulder once more, then gave him a toothy grin that damn near made him weep. “Kylie. What’s yours?”
Kylie.
Gage took a step forward, then eased down on the top step, afraid his knees would buckle.
Kyle had a kid.
And Gage had a niece. Who was bright, and beautiful, and liked frosting and all things dancing. Yet, he didn’t know anything else about her.
Not a damn thing.
“Gage,” he pushed out through the emotion squeezing his throat. “My name’s Gage.”
“Gage is that old friend I was telling you about,” Darcy said, her heels clicking up the brick pathway as she took a defensive stance behind her daughter.
Gage wanted to say he was her uncle, and he was sorry for not being there for her, that he didn’t know. He didn’t fucking know. But he didn’t want to scare her, or stir up more animosity with Darcy, so he just smiled like his heart wasn’t in his throat.
“The one you were sad about?” Kylie asked Darcy, her little voice all sweet concern.
Gage looked at Darcy, watched a broad wave of emotions tear through her dark brown pools and his gut knotted. From fear to relief, even some of that sadness Tiny was hinting at, it was all there, right beneath that heart-wrenching plea she was sending his way.
Please don’t hurt her. You can hurt me, but not her.
And wasn’t that a sad state of affairs. That her first thought, with regards to him, was that he’d hurt her. Hurt them.
He hadn’t meant to back then. And sure as hell hadn’t meant to now. But it was clear that she wasn’t happy he was back. Well, he wasn’t exactly happy about his reasons for coming either, or his five-year delay, but he was there now. And he intended to make it count.