All of Me (Confessions of the Heart 2)

Awesome.

“Here you go, Ian-Zian.”

Grace reached over, tore a piece of paper from it, and gave it to the little girl on the ground who rolled onto her belly and started scribbling on the blank sheet.

“I get paper!” the tiny girl hollered up at me from the floor. She stuck out one of the crayons she gripped in her chubby fist, grinning at me like I wasn’t some kind of stranger and she knew me and she was eager for my approval.

I was pretty sure Grace’s children had declared anarchy.

Didn’t think it could get worse.

Oh, but it could.

Because my lungs locked up tight when a young boy came around the corner.

All scowls and bad attitude and messy, sandy-blond hair.

He reminded me so much of myself at that age that it took about everything I had not to go bolting out the door.

When she saw him, Grace softened and moved to where the kid had come to a stop in the archway. He stood there, taking me in with nothing but hostility.

She touched his cheek, his chin, so soft.

I didn’t want to watch it.

That real kind of love every kid deserved to feel.

To know their mom would be there for them when they woke up, no matter what.

And this kid might have that taken away.

I couldn’t stand—

“Thomas, this is Mr. Jacobs. He’s an attorney who is going to represent our case.” Grace started talking before I had the chance to finish the thought.

There was no missing the way her words had changed for him, no doubt the boy far too aware of the direness of their situation.

The hopelessness.

From out of nowhere, an overwhelming emotion charged through my being.

Determination girding every cell.

Emphatic.

Different from dedication and tenacity.

This felt like . . . purpose.

And that right there scared the living shit out of me.

The kid looked at me as if he were adding me up. Calculating the threat.

Wary, he looked back at his mom. “What if he works for him?”

I frowned. “What does that mean?”

Thomas laughed. “Everyone does. Dad gets what Dad wants. Right?”

Scorn. It oozed from his every pore.

“And what is it you want?” I asked, grabbing the notebook, knowing the kid was going to be a challenge, but he was also probably my best source.

My best witness.

Hell, the little girl could probably be swayed by a lollipop and a trip to the local bookstore.

Not this kid.

He lifted his chin. “I want to protect my mom.”

Huh.

Guessed the kid and I were on the same page, after all.

Twenty

Grace

I hovered.

Chewing at my nails and fighting the ball of emotion that had my insides twisted in a knot, every part of me wound up and held in Ian’s hands.

Thomas sat in the chair beside him, antsy, knee bouncing a hundred miles a minute under the table while Ian remained calm and casual, as if our worlds weren’t hanging in the balance.

But that didn’t mean I didn’t feel the intensity radiating from him.

The care.

Even when he didn’t want to admit it.

This beautiful, rough man who I wanted to reach out to and just . . . hug. Let him hold me and pray I could maybe hold a bit of him. But I knew that was impossible.

Our lines had been drawn.

Boundaries made.

“And how do you feel when you have to visit your father’s house?”

Thomas scowled and crossed his arms over his thin chest, which I was sure one day would be massive. My little boy who I knew would become a good, good man. “I hate it. I mean . . . I don’t get why he even wants us over there. He’s always busy and working and we don’t even see him. Eva takes care of us the whole time.”

Ian jotted something on the pink pad. “Who’s Eva?”

“Our nanny.”

Ian glanced at me. I paced a little more, hugging myself, trying not to get too excited, too hopeful, because I knew what Ian had said was true.

This wasn’t going to be an easy win.

But we were going to fight it. Win it. I knew it.

Could feel relief spinning through the air, getting caught up in the power of that energy.

“How does that make you feel . . . that the nanny takes care of you?”

Thomas shrugged. “Like it’s a waste of time. And when we do see our dad, he’s always asking questions. Wanting to know what our mom is doing. Telling us to tell her that we want to go home. And then other times, he says mean things about her. It makes me . . .”

Thomas glanced over at me, his lips collapsing in a grim line. I got the distinct impression he didn’t want to admit it in front of me.

As if he were trying to protect me.

My big, brave, little man.

He turned back to Ian and lowered his voice. “It makes me angry and mad and worried. I don’t like it.”