I’d resisted for years.
And it was the girl next door who’d become irresistible.
Guilt welled in the deepest parts of me. In those sacred places I’d just desecrated.
I shifted where I was propped up on the headboard of Frankie’s bed with the book lifted out in front of us. My daughter was sprawled halfway across my chest, her head twisted to the side so she could see the pictures.
I’d basically been there all day, alternating between reading her stories, checking her temperature, and watching her sleep.
“Who’s that?” she whispered. Those brown eyes lit with a flash of excitement, promising me whatever sickness she’d been suffering from had finally begun to run its course.
“Not sure. You expecting a party or something?” I teased, tapping my index finger against her button nose, trying to pretend like the mere idea of Rynna standing on the other side of the door didn’t have me in knots.
She scrunched that nose with the cutest grin. “People aren’t suppose to gets a party just for feelin’ better, silly.”
“No?” I feigned ignorance.
“No way! Only prize people gets for feelin’ better is having to go backs to work.”
Laughter shot from my mouth in the same second affection stabbed me in the chest, so deep I thought it might cut me in two. But that was the thing about loving Frankie Leigh.
I loved her so much it physically hurt.
I ruffled a playful hand through her hair. “Sounds to me like you’ve been spending too much time with your grammy.”
Shock had her mouth dropping open. “There’s no such thing as too much Grammy times, Daddy. Don’t you knows that?”
I laughed again, almost deciding to ignore the door, but then Frankie hopped off the bed. She wrapped both her tiny hands around one of my wrists, yanking with all her might. Of course, the only nudge she gave was the one that shot through my heart. “Come on, Daddy. There’s someone ats the door. We gots to see who it is.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, relenting, hating the way my nerves buzzed through my body when I did. The way those defenses wanted to go up.
All the while, I was wishing there was a way I could throw rescue ropes over the side.
That I could climb out of the bullshit mess I’d made of my life and jump into one where taking a girl like Rynna Dayne would be okay.
With Frankie’s hand wrapped around my index finger, I stumbled along behind her. The kid was far too chipper as she bee-lined for the door. Maybe I had overreacted.
She popped up on her toes to peer out the side window and out on to the porch. She huffed when she dropped back onto her heels. “I finks we were too late. Nobody’s there.” I set a hand on her shoulder, guiding her behind me, that kick of protectiveness always at the ready to take hold. I twisted the lock so I could open the door and peer outside.
She was right.
No one was there.
But someone had been.
To my right, someone had left a tray on the short wooden table between the two rocking chairs. I’d made them what seemed a million years ago, back when I’d been nothing but a fool. We’d just been moving into this place, and I’d been thinking maybe I’d finally outrun that shadow.
The scar that forever eclipsed the true joy of my life.
I should’ve known better.
A large lidded bowl rested on the tray, and a tented card was propped to the side of it.
Squealing, Frankie flew out from behind me. “Oh, look it, Daddy. It gots my name on it. It is a present for me.”
My gaze darted across the street. The old house sat silent and unmoving, just the branches of the big trees that fronted her yard waving their welcome.
Emotion slammed me. Unstoppable. Too much. Overwhelming.
Pushing out a sigh, I forced myself to walk all the way out.
My senses were punched again when I reached down and grabbed the handles of the tray. Only this time, it was the amazing aroma that lifted from the bowl, striking me like comfort and warmth.
Comfort and warmth that was intended for my daughter.
Thoughtful in a way I couldn’t allow the woman to be.
My sweet girl trotted along beside me while I carried the offering inside and set in on the small dining table.
“What’s it, Daddy?”
She peered up at me with that trusting grin, her fingers threaded together where she leaned against her elbows on the table to get a better look. She looked like she was already issuing up a prayer for the food she’d been given.
“Careful,” I warned, lifting the lid.
It was a chicken pot pie. The kind Corinne Dayne had been famous for.
Homemade.
Handmade.
The aroma of it so overpowering, my mouth watered.
My damned hand was shaking when I reached down and snatched the note. Frankie’s name was written across the front in the prettiest handwriting I’d ever seen.