Page 33 of Irish

“You're never alone as long as you are in Grand Ridge,” Trinity assured, squeezing her hand. “You are always welcomed here.”

Clover's tail thumped against the floor, as if in agreement, and Makenzie smiled, a surge of warmth filling her. In the safety of this circle, with the scent of coffee and the soft hum of conversation, she knew she could face her future—one where she held the pen, ready to rewrite her own story. She called Clover to her and left Day & Night ready to head over to Irish’s office and have an important conversation with him.

“How was coffee?” Irish asked, looking up as Makenzie entered.

“Good.” She smiled warmly at him. Clover ran off to her large doggie bed in the corner, circled three times and laid down with a sigh. Makenzie giggled at her dramatic display.

“Glad to hear it. I adore those women. It amazes me sometimes, how many truly good people reside here. The military wives I came across… Well, some were great. Others were very dramatic and petty. I haven’t met anyone here who hasn’t been kind and authentic. So, are you working on the budget today? I thought I’d have you focus in on a cost projection for Fall. I wanted to see if there was enough room in the budget to add an extra week-long camp because I have an idea I’m hoping to make into a reality.”

“Actually, before I start on that, can we talk about something?” Makenzie asked him.

“We can talk about anything you want,” Irish said. “Come here, princess.” Irish scooted his chair back from the desk and patted his lap. Makenzie wasted no time, she hurried right over and sat on his wide thighs. “Right where you belong. What did you want to talk about?”

“Ummm,” she said, biting her bottom lip. She had a lot she wanted to talk about but how to put her thoughts into words that would make sense?

“Don’t bite your lip,” he ordered, flicking it gently with his finger. “Is something wrong?”

“Not exactly, wrong. I-I think I need to look for an apartment.”

Irish frowned at her. “Why do you think that?”

“Well, I decided I want to stay here but?—”

Irish’s whoop of excitement startled Makenzie. “Sorry princess, go on.”

“But, I don’t want to wear out my welcome at your place and what if we break up, then I’d be homeless.”

“First off, you will never wear out your welcome at my place. I want you there. I feel better knowing you are somewhere safe. Second, never go into a relationship thinking what if we break up. That shouldn’t be an option in your head. Think about, what if this lasts forever, because princess, I want our fairytale to end with a happily ever after ending. If you need your own space, we can redecorate the guest bedroom into a playroom or an office for you.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Hell, we can go look at paint colors after work.”

“No, I meant, really you want us to have a fairytale ending?”

“I don’t start relationships with women in the hopes they will fail. In fact, I don’t start relationships with women I’m not sure I want to last. I haven’t had a Little or a long-term girlfriend, since Darian. I’ve been super picky. I’ve dated here or there but no relationships.”

“But, you wanted to do a test run. That made it sound temporary.”

“No, sweet girl. I offered a test run for you, thinking once you learned to trust me, you wouldn’t leave. I knew what you went through with your former Daddy, and it was important to me that you got what you needed and knew I wouldn’t force anything on you.”

“Oh.” Makenzie thought for a second, processing his words.

“You said there was something else you wanted to talk about?”

“Expectations,” she blurted out.

Irish’s eyebrows drew together as he studied her. “What do you mean by that princess?”

“It’s important we have clear expectations. I need to know what you want from me, and I need you to know what I expect out of you.” The conversation she’d just had with the girls was heavy on her heart. “That way neither of us are disappointed by unrealistic, or unmet expectations.”

“That’s fair.” Irish reached around her and opened up the top drawer of his desk. He pulled something out and handed it to her. “Let’s write them down.”

Makenzie's fingertips traced the leather-bound journal. She looked up at Irish. "So, what should we write?” The pen felt heavy with potential as Makenzie poised it above the first page. Together, they crafted the framework of their dynamic, each rule and expectation etched with the ink of trust and the resonance of their shared past.

For the next hour they talked about everything. She expressed her desire for open communication, for being heard and having an opinion in their home. They set a list of rules and negotiated bedtimes, clothing choices, even consequences for disobeying them—all spelled out in black and white.

“Rule number one,” Makenzie murmured, “I will always communicate openly and honestly with you, Daddy.” She’d flipped back to the first page and scanned their progress.

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