Page 69 of Wanting a Family Man

“Most people put their babies in the car to get them to sleep,” she joked, packing the bits of leftover egg into a container they could take with them.

“Most people have more options than driving up and down their driveway.” His tone was stiff, making her wonder if that was a joke or not.

She’d been having trouble reading his mood since yesterday afternoon. She had put his reticence down to Storm being fussy and needing his attention last night, but she was starting to think there was more to it.

He showed her their hiking trail on the map, which would take them up the graveled road to the airport tarmac. They would then climb to an inland pond, head down to a waterfall, and end on a beach on the far side of the island.

“That’s three hours out and three back. Can you handle that?”

“No problem.” Aside from last night, she had been sleeping and eating really well.

Storm started to kick and squeal once she saw the backpack.

It was a soggy day, but there was a rain fly to keep the worst of the damp off her and she had a cute knitted hat with pink mouse ears that tied under her chin.

Cloe wore Tiffany’s bright pink rain jacket and stuffed a dry toque—as Trystan called the knitted hats—into her own pack, along with dry socks and a pair of light gloves. Her inner California girl demanded she add a pair of Tiff’s drawstring running shorts because they didn’t weigh much and surely the sun would come out?

The first part of the hike was kind of boring, avoiding puddles in the graveled road then tramping across the cracked runway. On the far end, a small clearing of long grass and baby trees soon led into mature undergrowth and taller trees.

Despite the rain dripping off the canopy of evergreens, Cloe loved walking into the thick, dimly lit woods. Moss cushioned her steps and wet cedar perfumed the air. Ferns grew as though deliberately set down in aesthetically pleasing places: atop old stumps and from within the cracks in rocks and halfway up a living tree.

“Newt.” Trystan pointed to the lip of a hollow log. He always had the sharpest eye for the tiniest sign of life. “Tree frog,” he said a few minutes later.

A woodpecker gave arat-a-tatand another bird gave a low whistle. Wings crossed above them in an audibleswoop-swoop-swoop.

The next time Trystan turned to her, he thumbed at the backpack and lifted his brow in question. Cloe nodded and touched her lips to indicate Storm was fast asleep.

They carried on in silence.

This was one of the things she liked most about Trystan. She was capable of small talk because she’d worked in so many customer-facing jobs. She was naturally curious about people, but she wouldn’t call herself an extrovert. Ivan had been the type of person who couldn’t stand silence. He had always needed music playing and had often talked just to hear his own voice.

In fact, she tended to draw chatterboxes to her because she was willing to listen, but it was nice to simply walk in silence where the only noise was their footsteps and the orchestra of nature. It gave her time to think.

Which led her to considering her future. That wasn’t the most comfortable thing to contemplate, but it was no longer a terrifying basement she was too scared to peer into. It was more of a barren desert she would have to cross before she found whatever was on the other side.

What did shehopeto find?

Her gaze hit the backpack where Storm was slumped forward against the pad between her and Trystan’s wide shoulders.

Something like that: a man capable of loving and caring for a baby. One who was confident and agile and might lead her into places that could be dangerous, but he wouldn’t leave her there.

Quit kidding yourself, she chided silently. She wantedhim.

What on earth did she have that Trystan might want forever, though? Sex? They were great in bed, no argument there, but sex was not enough to sustain a relationship.Shewasn’t enough, not when she was only a few steps up from Storm on the scale of self-sufficiency.

Plus, there was an awful, lingering erosion of her self-esteem from Ivan. Irrational doubts reared their head at times, chiding her that her boobs weren’t big enough, her hair was too curly, and she ought to keep her weight down because men liked women who were sex on a stick.

Trystan wasn’t like that. She knew he wasn’t, but a painful sense of inadequacy stalked her as they circled a bog where the remains of dead, broken trees stuck up like skeletons. She didn’t need to be more for him, but she needed to be whole.

The sky opened over the bog, still overcast and drizzling, but bright enough to make her squint. She stopped to watch the polka dots on the otherwise glassy surface, aware that Trystan also paused—he always noticed when she stopped. He was always patient while she absorbed a moment like this. He never rushed her and that was another thing she lov—likedabout him.

Her breath backed up in her lungs. She didn’tlovehim. How could she? She barely knew him.

Her heart quavered in her chest, though. Shecouldlove him. Not fangirl love. Not the dependency on Ivan that she had told herself was love. The real kind. The kind that made her feel like she was enough exactly as she was, flaws and scuffs and shadows and all.

She followed him back into the forest, still silent and feeling raw. Places inside her were stretching and reaching, tentatively opening in welcome. She wasn’t doing it on purpose. Her last few inner guards were falling away because that’s what love really was—vulnerability. For better or for worse.

Shewantedto let him in.

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