Page 76 of Finding Home

“Rainey,” I ask, “are you hungry for lunch?”

“Mm hmm,” she replies absently, not bothering to look at me.

I return to Caleb. “Why don’t you play with her, while I figure out ordering some lunch. When we’re done eating, I’ll get started on clearing out the house, while you take her down to the beach. She’ll be good and ready for a nap after that.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

I turn to leave, but Caleb stops me. “Hey, baby,” he whispers, making me stop in the doorway. “Thank you. For everything. I’ll never be able to thank you enough for what you’ve done for me. I hope you know that.”

My heart is exploding with love for him. But somehow, I manage to say, “I only want what’s best for Raine.” It’s atrue statement. But it’s also a withholding one, in context, when the full truth is that I’m bleeding out with love for the man.

As Caleb’s smile fades, I turn on my heel and march into the hallway, saving myself from admitting something I shouldn’t. That I love him. If I stay in Caleb’s presence any longer, I’ll tell him so. And I can’t do that until after the hearing, if ever. Not until I know, for a fact, the feelings I’ve been experiencing are real, mutual, and, most importantly, strong enough to withstand the ruling from the judge, whatever it might be.

Chapter 29

Caleb

“This is where you plan to live with Raine for the foreseeable future?” the social worker asks.

I clear my throat. “Yes, ma’am.”

With pursed lips, she jots a note on her pad. She’s got quite a poker face, this woman. Not to mention, dark, piercing eyes that remind me of the sixth-grade teacher who hated my guts.

“The school district is excellent here,” I add, even though she didn’t ask, and she jots another note. “If that changes, I’ll send Raine to the best private school in the area. There are a lot of them to choose from.” Another note. “But I’m thinking public school is a good idea to start with, so she’s surrounded by all kinds of people, you know?” Fuck, I’m stressed. I never babble like this.

Aubrey is playing with Raine in the backyard, while I’ve been guiding this court-appointed social worker around my house. If Aubrey were here, I wouldn’t be this nervous. She’d calm me down. But that’s not an option, apparently. The social worker wants to talk to her, separately.

After her close inspection of the main living areas, all ofwhich are now squeaky clean and family friendly, thanks to the Amazing Aubrey, the social worker asks to see Raine’s bedroom.

“Right this way,” I say, trying, and failing, to sound relaxed and casual. Man, I’m sweating bullets.

“I noticed the Volvo in the driveway,” the social worker says behind me, as we head down the hallway. “Is that your car or Miss Capshaw’s?”

“Mine. I bought it yesterday, specifically for transporting Raine. If Aubrey—Miss Capshaw—drives Raine, I’ll make sure she uses that car, too.” When the woman jots another note, I add, “My sister sent me an article about how Volvos are one of the safest family cars, so that’s what I got.”

“Is your sister coming here today?”

“Oh. I . . . No. I didn’t know she was supposed to come. I can call her now, if you?—”

“No, no. That’s fine. Your sister won’t be living here with Raine, correct?”

“No, ma’am. Just Aubrey and me. Miss Capshaw. My sister lives nearby, though. I can call her to come, if you’d like to meet her.”

“Do you plan for her to interact with Raine regularly?”

“Yes, ma’am. She loves Raine, and Raine loves her.”

“Then, yes, I’d love to meet her, if she’s available.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll text her right now and call if she doesn’t reply quickly.” I pull out my phone with a trembling hand and shoot off a text to my sister in all caps that begins with “URGENT!!!” before returning to the social worker with a tight smile. “Okay, so, this is Raine’s room here.” I motion to the doorway, but the woman doesn’t step inside. She’s too busy taking a note, apparently.

“What do you normally drive, when you’re not driving Raine?”

Why is that relevant?I’m deeply annoyed by the question, but I answer calmly, in a neutral and non-defensive tone, hopefully, listing off the three other cars and one motorcycle sitting in my garage.

“Do you wear a helmet when riding your motorcycle?”

“It’s required by law.” My heart rate quickens. Is my motorcycle a strike against me? Do good fathers not ride them? My own father rode one, but he was a horrendous father. Fuck. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned the motorcycle, although the way this is going, she’ll probably ask to see my garage, anyway. “I don’t ride it very often,” I blurt. “The motorcycle. And I’d be willing to get rid of it, if that would make a difference in the outcome. I certainly don’t want a motorcycle more than I want custody of my daughter.”

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