Show Me the Way (Fight for Me 1)

I lifted the flap to find what was written inside.

Dear Frankie Leigh,

Remember when I told you I had some of the recipes to my grandma’s pies? I have a special secret just for you—I have the recipe for the pot pie she used to make me whenever I felt sick, too. It was always my favorite, and sometimes, I didn’t even mind getting sick, because I knew she would make it and soon everything would be better. I remember being a little girl, just like you, eating this same pie at our kitchen table right across the street. With every bite I took, I knew that my grandma had to love me more than the whole wide world.

Last night, I wished with all of me that I could have taken your sickness away. But maybe there’s a chance this pie might make you feel better the way it always did me. I sure hope so.

All my love,

Rynna

Damn her.

Damn her straight to hell for teasing me this way.

Damn her for weaseling her way in and making herself a place in a spot where she knew she would never stay.

Fuck me for wanting it.

“Read it to me! Oh, read it to me, Daddy! Wha’s it say?”

“It’s from Rynna next door,” I told her, trying to keep the thick emotion from clotting my voice. “She said her grandma used to make her this same pot pie when she wasn’t feeling well. She thought it might help you feel better, too, so she made you some.”

Those big brown eyes went wide with hope, and her voice dropped like it might be a secret. “Do you think it mights be as good as cherry pie?”

My attention darted to the sweet pie still sitting on the countertop. The pie I’d dipped my finger into the second I’d gotten a chance this afternoon. Because shit. That little taste of her outside this morning had not been close to being enough.

“How about we test it out? You get some of this food into your belly, and I’ll heat you up a small piece of cherry pie. How’s that sound?”

“It sounds like you’re the best daddy in the whole wide world . . . just like Rynna’s grammy.”

If only that were the truth.

13

Rynna

I stepped out of my grandmother’s diner and was smacked in the face by the Alabama heat. A sticky sheen of sweat slicked my skin, and my arm still burned from the exertion of scrubbing on at least thirty years of built-up lard and oils splattered on every surface in the old kitchen. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to work on what little could be salvaged inside. It at least gave me something to keep my hands busy while I waited for my appointment with the bank so I could officially put in my application for a loan.

It was painful waiting. Not knowing. Wondering if I was going to have what it took to bring this dusty diner back to life. If anyone would believe in me. If they’d give me a chance to make this old dream a reality.

After today, I was bone tired. But there was an eager hum that whirred through my blood. A satisfaction that had been lacking in all the years I’d been away. While in San Francisco, I’d attempted to convince myself a life outside of Gingham Lakes was what I wanted.

Some part of me had always known it’d been a lie.

I could almost hear my grandmother whispering in my ear, “Do what makes you happy, child. In my experience, joy is a choice. Life is rough. Don’t expect it not to be. But if we aren’t laughin’, we’re crying. Choose to laugh. Choose what brings you joy. And when you choose your path, it might not always be the easiest one, but it’ll always be the right one.”

I lifted my face to the blue sky, squeezed my eyes closed, and silently murmured, “I chose this path, Gramma. Even if it’s not the easiest one, I know it’s where my joy is waiting for me.”

My eyes opened, my gaze landing on the construction site across the street. It was deserted, work done for the day, but that didn’t stop my mind from wandering to Rex.

After I’d left his house yesterday morning, I’d gone home and crawled straight into bed. With being awake at the emergency room for most of the night, I’d anticipated I’d immediately fall asleep, but I’d tossed.

Exhausted but wired.

Drained but restored.

As if I’d been left spinning somewhere in limbo.

Lost in a blissful kind of purgatory where I’d stumbled upon a man with the skill to bring me to orgasm with a few mind-rending strokes of his body. But there had been so much pained remorse in his expression afterward that it’d sent me crashing to the ground.

No question, he’d needed to run to Frankie. It was exactly what he should do. His child should always be his first priority.