Morrison (Caldwell Brothers)

Inside, I smile to myself. This is how it should be. Adult problems are just that—adult fucking problems. They shouldn’t trickle down on top of kids. Let children be children. There is more than enough time later in life for them to be filled with worry, doubts, and insecurities.

“Mommy, did you see me? Did you see me?” She beams, and I look to Morrison, who is smirking. “I rode in a porch.”

“Porsche, Porsche,” Morrison tries to correct.

“It’s s’posed to go really, really fast, but Mister Mowison asked if I wanted to go fast or slow, and I said slow.”

In that moment, my heart melts just a little. He gave my baby girl a choice. I can’t think of a time with my mom, my sperm donor, or Monte that I was ever given a choice about anything. However, Morrison Caldwell gave my daughter a choice. He listened and then gave her what she asked for.

When I look to him, he simply shrugs like it’s no big deal. If he only knew . . .

Quickly growing bored, Marisa bounces past me and over to Morrison, who leads us inside. The space is not overly large, like the house I shared with Monte, but as I take in every single square inch, I see it is high-class. The furniture, the TV—hell, even the accent pieces are high-end.

Morrison has money.

Thinking on that, my mind spins down the dark rabbit hole yet again. What will he expect from me? What does he want from me?

We spend the rest of the afternoon getting set up—only temporarily—in Morrison’s guest room. Luckily, he doesn’t say much in front of Marisa, seeming to understand my need to shelter her.

Night comes all too quickly, thankfully with no word from Marshall or Monte. I’d made a quick call to Jamie, who told me to shut my phone off and get a new prepay to contact her on. After we left earlier, she’d gone to the store and bought pads, tampons, and a prepaid phone that she gave me the number to. The packages of feminine products easily hid the phone inside the plastic grocery bags on the way out of the store. She doesn’t want Alex to see any numbers on the bill for her regular phone and turn them over to Monte. Thank goodness for smart friends. I wouldn’t be able to do any of this without her.

I sigh. I wouldn’t be able to do any of this without Morrison, either.

Whether I want to admit it or not, Monte would have found a reason to push me harder and further even without knowing I hooked up with Morrison. This is his world, and I merely exist in it to do as he wishes.

Knowing I won’t be able to sleep, I slowly pull myself away from Marisa, who is soundly sleeping in the overly lush bed. Her books aren’t packed, because in my rush, I didn’t think about such things. She happily settled for Mommy making up a fairy tale and added in her own bits and pieces where she felt appropriate.

Now, I quietly move through Morrison’s space as the dread washes over me. Curling up on his couch, I do what any self-respecting mother would do—I cry.

I let it all out. In the quiet of the night, in a relative stranger’s house, I let go.

I don’t pay attention to what’s around me as I sob into the fancy throw pillow I find beside me. It isn’t long before, sensing him, I look up to see Morrison walking over to me in a pair of light blue linen pants with white stripes. I hide my face behind the pillow.

How much has he seen?

“Sorry to interrupt, but in my master bedroom, there is a huge bathtub full of hot water and some bubbles. Why don’t you go see if that will help you relax?”

“I don’t need to relax, and if you’re just trying—”

“Hold up. I’m not trying anything except to keep you safe until we can come up with a plan.”

I look up at him and scowl.

“Stow the badass Hailey. You know damn well that’s not what you need right now.”

“Don’t tell me what I need!”

“Shh, little chick is sleeping.”

I am shocked that he’s just scolded me. Then I am flooded with even more emotions—warmer ones. Monte never cared if Marisa witnessed a fight. That’s why I stopped allowing him to push my buttons around her. She didn’t deserve to hear that; she deserves so much more.

Without a word, I get up and follow the light. Maybe Morrison is right; maybe I do need to try to relax.

Once we’re in his room, he holds out a shirt. “Sleep in this if you want.”

I am in the bathroom, soaking away my worries, or at least trying to, when he walks in and hands me a glass of wine. “Here, you’ve earned it, little momma.”