Page 11 of Protected By the Mountain Man

But that, too, must be crazy. Right? Because there’s no way that a man like Ace would ever be interested in a woman like me.

Not that I care who is or is not interested in me, I tell myself firmly as I heft Billy on my hip and grope in the diaper bag until I came up with wipes and a fresh diaper.

I wish I could believe myself.

Because for a woman like me, with an ongoing history with an abusive former partner, to be interested in a man sight unseen? That doesn’t make any sense. Not even a little.

And yet, it’s more than mere curiosity that trains my ear to Ace’s movements — or lack of thereof — as I clean Billy up and get him ready for this next phase of our life.

I must be a fool.

That’s the only reasonable explanation.

But it’s one thing to think foolish things, and quite another to act on those foolish things.

I might be foolish, a romantic with my head in the clouds. That’s probably why I spent the night that I did with Ryan, after all.

But I’m smart enough to know not to act on those feelings. Not anymore.

I think.

I hope.

I swallow hard as I gaze at Billy in his fresh diaper. I have to act smarter than I used to. For my son, if not for me.

I have to. He deserves that much from his mother.

Resolve strengthened, I stand, picking up Billy in the same smooth motion. Then, drawing a deep, steadying breath, I push through the curtain to face Ace without my brother for the first time, knowing that I have to stay strong for my child.

It turns out that I didn’t have to worry about any of this.

Because when I step out of the curtained area and lock eyes with Ace, my throat suddenly constricting, he takes one wide-eyed look at me and, turning on his heel, runs for it.

He tosses a single strangled statement over his shoulder as he lets himself out the front door. “Make yourself at home.”

Before I know it, Billy and I are alone in a strange man’s apartment, and I’m left to wonder what the hell I did wrong.

Not much, of that I’m pretty certain.

Then why is my chest echoing with an odd and unfamiliar emptiness?

I give myself a shake. This is good. This is preferable, in fact. Ace has generously given me space to, in his words, make myself at home.

Even though the nape of my neck is prickling with unease — not fear, but a worry that I’ve made a faux pas — I set about to do just that.

Retreating to the curtained area for a moment, I re-emerge with a cooler packed with pureed vegetables. Stepping into the kitchen area of the studio apartment, I unload all the containers of puree into the fridge except one.

That one I empty into a sturdy-looking bowl I find in a cupboard. Then, sitting at the tiny kitchen table with Billy on my lap, I present my son with the vegetables and a spoon. He starts filling his mouth with sweet potato that I steamed and blended smooth before we left, using only his chubby hands.

Normally I might be irritated at my child’s insistence on forgoing the spoon I’m offering. But instead, I’m distracted by thoughts of Ace, and wishing I had the good sense not to be.

Ace

Idon’t trust myself with Mariah, and I don’t like it one bit.

I’m not used to feeling not in control of myself.

The last time I felt like this, the consequences were devastating — for me, sure, but far worse for the people I failed.

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