Burned Hearts (Burned 3)

He kissed me. Softly, sweetly, passionately. I could have just skated away with the soulful moment. But Amsel stirred and made a small distressed sound that I figured was related to the need for food.

Pulling away from Dane, I asked, “Would you mind getting Dr. Preston? I have a lot of questions about feeding and burping and changing Amsel. All that.”

“Mind if I sit in on the lesson?”

“Of course not.” A second later, my brow dipped. “But don’t you have to get back to Quantico or wherever the FBI is hiding you?”

With another sexy kiss, he said, “It’s not Quantico. And I can hang a while longer.”

He left us briefly and I returned my attention to little Amsel Bradley Bax. My blackbird.

“So, Kid,” I mused as he kept up the adorable gurgles. “What do you think of your family so far? Lots of people, all willing to do anything in their power to keep you safe. They’re pretty fabulous. And wait until you meet your granddad. He’s a golfer. Very laid-back dude. You’ll learn a lot from him.” I suddenly couldn’t wait to introduce the two of them.

As I went all gooey over my dad and my son bonding, there was a small knock on my bedroom door. I barely heard it.

“Come in.”

Lisa entered first—she was one of the specialists for the little autistic girl, Chelsea, whom Macy accommodated for inpatient care. “We’re not interrupting, are we?”

“No. Great timing, actually.”

Lisa moved farther into the room. Chelsea followed suit, though stuck to the fringes. She was a petite blonde with a frail frame and springy curls. A gifted child whose mother had done everything she could to raise Chelsea in a secure and nurturing environment but hadn’t quite been equipped to deal with the complexities of autism.

The more I’d gotten to know Chelsea during my stay, the more I’d come to realize how fascinating she was—and how specifi

c her needs were. I’d set up a foundation for autistic children as a result and one for single-income mothers, such as Chelsea’s, in the small community of Sedona, where the cost of living could prove challenging.

Chelsea benefited greatly from Macy’s retreat. Dane and I had paid for two years of her future care, which I now considered extending, seeing what good it did for Chelsea. When I’d first met her, she never would have made this bold of a move, coming to my room for an amiable visit. I prayed others reaped similar advantages from our efforts.

To the delicate little blonde, I asked, “Are you here to see my baby?”

She hung back, as was her nature. She didn’t like anyone invading her space. I could relate. I’d never liked it, either. Hadn’t been able to get over the affliction until I’d met Dane, actually.

“His name is Amsel,” I offered in a soft voice. Like me, Chelsea was averse to loud noises. For entirely different reasons, of course. I’d heard enough slammed doors and shattered glass to last a lifetime.

I waited a few moments, not saying anything. Lisa remained silent as well. This was how Chelsea acclimated.

Mostly, she spent her time at a large table just inside the solarium that overlooked the gardens and courtyard. Chelsea had the phenomenal ability to replicate landmarks out of Erector Sets and Legos. If we could channel that talent into rebuilding the Lux, we’d really be in business.

Five or so minutes passed with no one rushing Chelsea or making a move. Amsel stopped fussing and slept in my arms. I was captivated by the sight of him, the feel of him, the smell of him. I resisted the urge to lift him to my nose and inhale deeply.

Finally, Chelsea inched forward. Slowly. She eyed Amsel from various angles. Subtly.

I watched, while trying to appear as if I weren’t.

When she reached the bed, she tilted her head, checking out the minuscule package. Then she climbed onto the mattress. That was a surprise, her being the spatially conscious type. I didn’t say anything, didn’t make as though this was a shock.

She crawled toward Amsel, sat on her knees, then very gently poked at my son. His leg. His arm. His shoulder. Not jarring him in the least, just sort of feeling him out.

I bit back a laugh. Lisa shot me a warning look—as though to remind me of how not to upset Chelsea with raucous sounds or sudden movements.

I whispered, “He’s brand-new. Cute, huh?”

She studied him closely. Didn’t say a word, not that I was surprised, because she rarely spoke to anyone other than her specialists. And Kyle.

“Smells nice, too. I’m keeping him.”

She glanced up at me.