Page 17 of Ice, Love, & Other Penalties

Indigo tucks a lock of hair behind her ears. “I think I need some notes, but overall, we’ve had a great day so far.”

Oh, right, I promised I would forward Myra’s schedule and meal plans. Before I can tell her that I’m still waiting for Gemma to email me that info, Myra says, “Indie’s helping me with a big puzzle.”

I nod, acknowledging my daughter, my eyes lingering on Indigo a second longer than necessary before shifting their focus to the puzzle. “I can see that. It seems like a difficult one.”

Indigo’s response is a nod and a smile that transforms her face into something even more captivating. It sends an unexpected flutter through my chest. I close my eyes briefly hoping it passes quickly. This attraction for her isn’t something I should be experiencing.

“It’s something I believe she could do,” she says, as if justifying herself.

“Join us, Daddy,” Myra says, tugging at my hand with a determination that allows no argument, guiding me toward the coffee table.

As I settle cross-legged on the floor to join them, I’m acutely aware of Indigo’s presence. It’s only been hours since she stepped foot into this house, but so far, she has brought a sense of balance and harmony I hadn’t fully realized we were missing.

We work on the puzzle quietly, the silence warm and comfortable. I find myself hoping, perhaps foolishly, that this feeling, this unexpected rightness, is just some reaction to the Washington air and it leaves soon.

Just focus on the puzzle, Brynes.

And I do. The edges of the cardboard fit together with a satisfying click, and every time I get it right, my gaze instinctively flicks to Indigo.

This time though, she’s hunched over, fingers moving gracefully, sorting through the colors and shapes strewn across the coffee table. Her focus is so intense, her brow furrowed in concentration as if the world outside this puzzle ceases to exist.

Myra pouts when the piece she’s trying to set doesn’t fit. “Maybe this is wrong,” she mumbles, frustrated.

Indie picks up a piece. “Look at this one, Myra,” she murmurs, her soft voice sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. “See how this shade of blue in the corner matches our piece?”

Myra nods.

Indie hands it to her. “Also, the edges are very similar. Try to set it there.”

“Got it, Indie.” My daughter’s enthusiasm bubbles over as she slams the piece into place, not quite as gently as Indigo would have done but with a gusto that makes both of us smile.

There’s something about the way Indigo interacts with Myra, a natural ease that comes from somewhere deep within her. It’s as if she radiates a warmth that reaches out, wrapping around my little girl, comforting both of us in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

I lean back against the couch, arms crossed as I try to calm my body’s reaction. This shouldn’t be happening. Not now, not with her. The fluttering in my chest disagrees vehemently with the logic in my head. And my fucking dick . . . Well, it’s ready for a lot more than just looking at the beautiful woman in my living room.

Indigo is a breath of fresh air, but she’s not mine to breathe in—not permanently. Not as close as I wish.

“Dad look, we got another piece in.”

“Myra, you’re like a wizard of puzzles,” I comment, trying to keep my tone light, casual.

Indie flashes me a grin, and I swear the room brightens a fraction. “Keep practicing and you’ll be able to do those thousand-piece puzzles we saw at the bookstore.”

“Are you an expert?” I ask.

She shrugs one shoulder. “My siblings and I spent rainy days lost in jigsaw worlds.”

“Rainy days, huh?” I repeat.

“Yep, it was either puzzles, getting lost in books, or the music studio,” she replies, turning her attention back to the task at hand.

Books and puzzles—safe topics. Though a music studio . . . who has that at home? Should I ask her more about it? No. Even discussing that feels like treading into dangerous territory. It’ll mean getting to know more about her. That’s not what you do with an employee. You keep things professional, so the lines are never blurred.

You, fucking liar. Gemma shared a lot about her and not once did you think about kissing her.

Kissing Indie isn’t the only thing I would want to do. With Indie . . .

I want to taste a lot more than her lips.

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