Page 35 of The Sweetest Chirp

Once my girls were fed, I started asking more questions. Arwen crawled at seven months and started walking at a year. She was signing at eight months, though, just easy stuff, but the pride on Audrina’s face had me chomping at the bit for more information. I asked when she signed her first sentence and learned that she was almost one. I’m not sure that “a blue dog” is a full sentence, but Audrina looked so pleased I didn’t argue with her. I love how proud of our daughter she is. How she hasn’t forgotten one memory of Arwen’s life.

But selfishly, I want more.

Of her.

“What did you do?”

She shrugs, messing with the wrapper of a Skittles package. “Worked, and then I started getting my master’s.”

“And when you weren’t doing that?”

She side-eyes me. “Taking care of Arwen.”

We had pulled up to the doctor’s office before I could ask more. However, I doubted I’d actually come out and ask if she met someone in the last three and a half years. If anyone meant something to her like I had. Who am I kidding? I’d be a damn fool to think she didn’t. She’s absolutely stunning and works in a damn diner full of horny men and truckers. I lost her; she could do what she wanted, which, surprisingly, makes me a bit stabby.

When she came around the Range Rover I rented with Arwen on her hip, her eyes intently on our girl, I know she wouldn’t have. She’s devoted to our daughter, and when would she have the time? The overly possessive fucker inside me growls in the hope that I’m right.

But what if I’m not?

Now, as I stare into her eyes, totally blanking on what she just said, I wish I knew. Maybe I could just ask.

“Thatcher?” she asks, and I blink past the haze of anger at the thought of someone else touching her, being a dad to Arwen.

“What?” I ask gruffly since my mind is back in my caveman mode, where I want to kidnap her and take her back to my lair to remind her how great we are together on my bearskin rug.

Honestly, the girl doesn’t even like me right now, so why I’m trying to get her on my metaphorical bearskin rug is pointless.

I have to get her to like me again.

Unless she wants to have some dirty hate sex.

I have issues.

Her eyes narrow. “What is wrong with you? You look distracted.”

If only she knew. I chuckle softly, shaking my head. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“Malyshonukin sign. I had forgotten how to do it, and I was sad for a long time since it’s what my mom calls me. I wanted to call her that.”

My heart warms. “Now you can.”

She rubs Arwen’s bare ankle, but her eyes stay on mine. They’re more brown than green today, and I can’t stop staring into her eyes. How her thick lashes draw me in, and how her lips capture me in such a tight hold. Her voice is low as she says, “I can. Thank you.”

As much as I want to close the distance between us and devour her mouth, I have to know.

“Have you had a relationship since you left?”

She jerks her head back, side-eyeing me as her face flushes. “What?”

“Pretty cut-and-dried question,” I say softly, feigning nonchalance. “Just wondering who’s been around Arwen.”

She doesn’t look at me, but I can see the disgust on her face. “Absolutely no one.”

I will myself not to jump to conclusions as I ask, “And has anyone been around you?”

She tips her chin up, slightly tilting her head so our eyes kinda lock. It’s like she wants to look at me, but she doesn’t want me to see the truth in her eyes. Or on her face. “Why?”

“Just wondering.”

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