Burned Hearts (Burned 3)

“I’ll bring him to see you whenever you want. If you want.”

Chelsea took a few moments to visually inspect Amsel a bit more. Then she nodded. She gave a couple more faint jabs and smiled.

“I promise he’ll be awake next time.”

Still, she didn’t seem to mind. She climbed off the bed and wandered off.

Lisa said, “She definitely likes him.”

“I think it’ll be mutual.”

chapter 9

We were all back at the creek house three days later. Dr. Preston didn’t feel the need to keep Amsel under close observation at the retreat after that period but requested she be allowed to check in on him twice a week. I agreed wholeheartedly, and with Dane’s approval Amano didn’t have much choice but to acquiesce as well.

I felt a chill factor between my bodyguard and me that was distressing. I knew I’d pushed the limit when I’d wanted him to keep the premature birth from Dane, but I’d been thinking of Dane’s safety—all of the coming and going made him a moving target and that worried me.

Dane stayed a couple nights more. The baby didn’t seem to miss a beat when it came to eating, doing his little business, and sleeping. All the activity in the house garnered his attention, exhausting him. Everyone loved holding him. When they could pry him from my arms, that was.

I would sit and stare in wonderment at him for endless amounts of time, until someone came along and wanted to take over. Rosa mostly, but Amano was clearly hooked on our bundle of joy, too. Kyle was equally infatuated, which surprised me. I wouldn’t have thought he’d be so keen on Dane’s son. Typically, anything related to my husband made Kyle grumble. But Amsel was addictive, all cuddly and squeaky clean and only slightly fussy.

Of all the people fascinated with the baby, it was Dane who amazed me the most, as he cataloged every single detail when it came to our son. Dane watched me care for Amsel, but didn’t shy away from feedings, changings, bathings. And he talked to Amsel about how incredible his life would be, how fortunate he was to have me as a mom, how much we all loved him.

Dane was smitten. Over the moon, smitten. He obsessed over me, certainly. But his admiration of Amsel was so incredibly endearing, my heart melted every time I happened upon father and son, sharing affectionate moments I knew would help to shape Amsel’s life.

A tinge of envy also washed over me. My own dad had never failed to make me feel loved and wanted. Yet he’d never been particularly demonstrative, physically. My mother, of course, had exhibited zero warmth for either of us, so I’d grown up lacking those hugs and cheek kisses most kids found doting when they were young, annoying when they were teens, and reassuring when they were older.

Dane did not possess that reserved emotional sensor that kept him from expressing his feelings. It choked me up. I honestly couldn’t have loved either one of them more than I did. And I literally just wanted to eat them both up. It was such a bizarre craving, this need to be with them, to watch them, to absorb them.

Dane tolerated my hovering. He didn’t take offense, or fear it might be that I observed in order to make sure he didn’t do anything wrong with the baby tasks. He seemed to like the tight family unit we’d become, even if it did include Kyle.

I had to admit that we all were a bit overprotective of the new household addition. Even as Amsel slept in his crib in our bedroom, Dane and I stood alongside the railing, unable to take our eyes from him.

Our son had been asleep a good half hour one evening when I finally admitted, “Okay, we are officially creepy.”

Dane chuckled. “Not creepy. Mesmerized.”

“And staking him out just to make sure nothing happens to him if we turn our backs for two seconds.”

“He’s just so—” Dane shook his head, appeared to search for the right word.

I offered, “Yummy?”

“Now you’re creepy.”

I playfully shoved at him. “You know what I mean,” I whispered. “I want to hold him 24-7. Snuggle nonstop.”

“I like hearing that. Except…” Dane wrapped his arms around me—having made a full recovery from the gunshot wound—and pulled me close to him. “I told you a long time ago that I wouldn’t share you.”

“You have no choice now.”

“And I’m not complaining. At all. But I still get my time with you.”

“Do you ever.” I encircled his neck with my arms, pressed my body against his. “Take me to bed.”

He kissed me. Deeply, passionately, possessively. Then he said, “To sleep. Because you’re exhausted and need to rest. And I want to hold you while you do.”

He didn’t have to say the words before I have to go. They always lingered between us. Painfully. Tauntingly. Regretfully.