War of Hearts (Storm MC Reloaded 2)

He slides off the couch and bounces on the floor, his eyes sparkling with joy. “Bob the Builder.”

“Can I watch with you?”

His head moves back and forth, his delight obvious. “Yes!” He then sits on the couch again, positioning himself right next to me.

When his little head leans against my arm and he keeps it there, my heart squeezes. He’s the same age my daughter—I decided back then that my baby was a girl—would have been.

I’m deep in thought about her when Fury comes back into the apartment. “Here,” he says, passing me a black hoodie.

Noah’s hands curl around my arm when I attempt to stand. “No,” he says, “We’re watching Bob.”

“Zara has to get dressed, buddy,” Fury says.

“I’ll come straight back,” I promise.

He’s not keen on letting me go, but he releases my arm. “Straight away,” he says, and I hold my laughter in.

When I shake my head and grin, Fury eyes me questioningly. Leaning in as I walk past him, I say, “I see he’s picking up your bossy ways.”

His chuc

kle is music to my ears, and I hurry to my bedroom in an effort not to be pulled too far back into his orbit.

The hoodie hits me midthigh, instantly warming me. I hang my towel in the bathroom and walk back out to the living room. Fury is sitting with Noah, his arm spread across the back of the couch while Noah leans against his father. Noah is explaining something about the show to Fury who’s listening intently. I’m getting a feel for how he parents and so far all signs are pointing to him being a very hands-on dad. This, I love. But I never expected anything less. I need to go to the ends of the earth for my child.

He turns when he hears me, settling his gaze on my face for a moment before taking in his hoodie that’s so big I almost feel like I’m wearing a blanket. As I move closer to the couch, my legs become his focus. Goddam, this man doesn’t know how to hide his interest. It screws with my fortitude.

Crossing my arms, I arch my brows when he finally drags his eyes from my body. “Really?”

The creases around his eyes practically wink at me as he stands. “Really.” Without another word, he leaves us and goes back to the bathroom.

Jesus.

Men.

“Zara!” Noah reaches for my hand and pulls me to sit with him. This time, he rests his elbow on my leg and his chin in his hand. Every now and then he looks up at me, smiling when my eyes meet his.

We watch his show for ten minutes or so, at which point Fury comes back into the room and says, “It’s fixed.”

“You are a god,” I gush without thought, because anyone who fixes my washing machine will always be a god as far as I’m concerned. It’s not until I see how my words affect him that I wish I’d maybe refrained from telling him this.

“What I mean,” I say, with much less passion, “is thank you. You have no idea how much I appreciate you coming over to do that. What was wrong with it?”

“The filter was blocked.” He glances between his son and me, an expression crossing his face that I can’t get a read on. “You working today?”

“Yeah, I just have to dry my dress and then I’ll head in.”

He jerks his chin at me. “Go dry it. I’ll drop you off.”

Good God, no.

“No, you get going. I’ll walk to work. It’s not that far.”

“Zara, it’s raining. And cold. No one wants to be out walking in this weather.”

I do.

“I’m fine, Fury. I lived in Melbourne for four years; I got caught in the rain often.”