Page 73 of Rumor Has It

“Aria cries and I don’t have the first clue what she wants, Cass. I wind up carrying her around half the time.”

“Does it stop her crying?”

“Well, yeah.” He shrugs.

“That makes it obvious, then. Aria wants the same thing I do: You.” I tip up on my toes and peck him on the lips.

I intended it to be a simple kiss. A friendly, albeit romantic, gesture to show Isaiah I am interested in starting over. Although when I go to flatten my heels, and his hand curls around my neck, up into my hair, and he presses his lips firmly against mine, it’s apparent Isaiah and I aren’t starting from scratch.

We’re much too aware of the other’s impulses. All it takes is a swipe of his tongue and I open for him, letting him delve into my mouth, and succumbing to the sweetest sin that is being kissed by Isaiah Roomer.

Our lips part, but our chests heave against one another. Isaiah smiles down at me. He brushes my hair behind my ear and rests his forehead against mine. “Sometimes—when it gets to be too much—I wonder if it will ever matter again what I want.”

“What do you want?” All the possibilities run through my mind.Another double platinum album. A successful tour. A long and storied music career. To a lesser extent, since he’s hyperfocused on doing right by her, Aria’s safety.

“I want you to be mine to keep.”

“I am yours.”For now,I leave out.

I’m willing to risk my heart on this man for a while longer. I intend to enjoy every second with Isaiah being mine until he leaves on the tour.

Chapter Twenty-nine

ISAIAH

“I think I’ve got the hang of it.” I scoop the meatball mix a little more proudly than I should and drop a ball onto the tray, using a tablespoon to get the circumference correct.

Like when I’d made the appetizer to bring to her aunt and uncle’s house, Cassidy has been nothing less than encouraging. But when I saw my first attempts, some rolled too big and others too small, I threw the lumpy spheres back into the mixing bowl and started over again.

You’d think making meatballs was a no-brainer, but according to Cassidy, size matters.

Ha-Ha.

“I’m proud of you, and I’m sure they’ll turn out great.” Cassidy’s sitting at the kitchen table feeding Aria her breakfast.

Gracyn caught me shirtless in the laundry, the victim of another spit up after Aria had her morning bottle. Cassidy’s sister suggested adding the rice cereal to Aria’s bottle. I checked with the doctor to make sure it was okay. The guy took the recommendation one step further, mentioning Aria is old enough to start solid food.

My talent on stage, however, far exceeds my ability to get mushy cereal into Aria’s mouth without it running down her chin. As it is with all things food, Cassidy is a pro. Feeding the baby takes her half the time and, when she does it, Aria and I don’t need a bath afterwards.

I haven’t thrown in the towel entirely. Practice makes perfect and all. I also figure Aria is here for the long haul.

With every spoonful of cereal Aria eats, Cass humsMmm. The sound is PG and it shouldn’t go straight to my dick, but boy does it.

Fighting against the need to have Cassidy back in my arms, I’ve taken what Gatlin said about being patient to heart. It worked by the end of the first week of January, and now I get to steal kisses from her when no one is watching.

It’s bound to work again.

It’s got to work again soon or I’m shit out of luck with February on the horizon.

During my normal check-in with my grief counselor earlier this week, I opened up about Cassidy and how good things are for the three of us. On normal days, we have a dynamic. I make the coffee. Cassidy comes down from her room—a place I haven’t slept in weeks—and I write while she preps whatever is on the daily menu. We have a solid hour before the baby monitor flashes red. Being quiet with her is consistently my favorite time of the day; watching her putter, mixing and chopping, and smelling whatever she’s baked coming fresh out of the oven.

After Aria’s diaper change this morning, I brought Aria down for her breakfast. She fussed, lunging for the most important woman in our lives. Cassidy had the ingredients for cocktail meatballs and dirty hands. She could only appease Aria with a peck on the top of her head. Bouncing Aria on my hip, I plucked a clean rubber spatula from a drawer for the baby to gnaw on until I had her cereal ready.

“Want to trade places?” I asked.

“You want these meatballs marinated and ready for when your company arrives?” She dug her hands into the bowl, kneading the mixture.

“Yeah, but I also sorta wanted to learn to do it myself…Oof!” Still working on fine motor skills, Aria thwacked me in the face.

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