More of You (Confessions of the Heart 1)

Yeah, and I wondered if it weren’t an ambush.

“She needs to know boundaries, Jace,” I told him, a spit of anger making its way into my tone, because he sure didn’t have the right to tell me how to raise my daughter.

Or maybe it was the unsettling feeling of relief that he was there to catch her that worried me most of all.

That he was here, and for the first time in three months, I truly felt safe.

He nodded slowly. Almost sadly. “Okay.”

He set her onto her tiny feet, his fingertips sweeping through the very back of her curly hair.

I blinked through the burn that abruptly stung my eyes, my emotions everywhere. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . . I’m not used to anyone being here.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me, Faith. I get it. I keep pushing past the boundaries I should know better than to push against.”

From his stare, I could see clearly what he was referencing, referring to the tension that had bound the walls back out in the hall as he’d taken us back to that day—to that moment—all those years ago.

Unable to keep standing under his gaze, I stretched my hand out for Bailey. “Come on, Button. It’s time for bed.”

She swung her attention up to Jace. “Can you read me story?”

There was so much hope behind it that I nearly dropped to my knees.

Jace didn’t seem too steady, either, his attention swiveling between the two of us as if he were begging for help.

For direction.

“Bailey, honey, Mommy will read you a story.”

“But I’s want him to.” It was all a sweet plea as she peered up at him with that eager smile.

“It’s fine,” Jace said, looking at me as if he were asking for permission.

“Jace.” I guessed I’d regressed to begging it. Because I no longer knew where I stood.

He shook his head. “It’s fine,” he said again, this time resolute.

And I was terrified that it wasn’t ever going to be.

Fifteen

Jace

What the fuck was I doing? I felt like I was being led to the execution block. Or maybe I was standing at heaven’s door.

Because my heart rustled out an extra beat when the little girl looked up at me like I was some kind of hero.

This just from my agreeing to read her a story.

Headful of dark, dark curls and a smile so big I felt the magnitude of it like a swift kick to the gut.

Bailey.

I gulped as my spirit twisted around that name, the kid trotting along at my side with her tiny hand wrapped in mine, wearing this pajama set with unicorns printed all over the front.

She kept looking up at me.

Chocolate eyes so big and curious.

“I wike stories,” she told me, all kinds of eager.

“You do, huh?”

“Yep. You wike ’em?”

Unease moved through me. “Uh, sure I do.”

How the hell had I ended up having a conversation with this kid like it was the most natural thing in the world?

Okay, not natural.

Because my damn heart felt like it was going to bang its way right out of my chest when she led me into her room.

She released my hand and ran straight for her tiny bed and hopped into it, grinning back at me.

But it was what was sitting on it that staggered my steps. Made me feel like the floor had been ripped right the hell out from under me.

Fucking falling.

Nothing below to catch me.

Ratty and worn, one of the arms hanging by a thread.

It was that cheap, stuffed Beast doll.

It was sitting right there on top of her bed.

My heart was back in my throat, doing stupid, stupid things.

She reached out and grabbed it like she felt my reaction to it.

Because she was hugging that damned doll to her chest, her teeth biting her bottom lip the same way her mother had always done.

Like she felt bad she was looking all the way to the center of me but didn’t know how to stop herself.

“You wike my room?”

She studied me. Wary and shy. Sweet and intrigued.

God, this kid really was getting under my skin. I was an idiot for letting her get there.

I glanced around, trying to find something to put my attention on rather than her.

“Yeah,” I managed to tell her through the clot of emotion in my throat.

But it didn’t matter how desperately I was trying to find a different focus.

Here was this kid that wasn’t more than a baby.

On her knees on her mattress.

Waiting on me.

“You paint it aww pink?”

She gazed at me like I might be her savior.

Her cheeks were about three times too big for her small face, rosy, almost chapped against her pale skin, her hair a mess of curls.

I had to wonder if her mom didn’t call her Button because of her nose.

The kid was adorable, so damned sweet as she waited.