Page 44 of Filthy Rich Single Daddies

Austin’s face softens for a moment, and I know I’ve struck a nerve. His shoulders slump slightly, the fight draining out of him. "She deserves better than us," he mutters. "Better than this...mess."

"Maybe she does," I admit. "But we’re what she’s got. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s that we’d move heaven and earth to give her the world. All three of us. You can’t tell me that isn’t better than what she’s had before."

Austin sinks into a chair, resting his elbows on his knees as he buries his face in his hands. "It’s a disaster waiting to happen," he says, his voice muffled.

“Maybe,” I concede. “But it might also be the only thing that’s ever made sense.”

Chapter 14

Skylar

The sun beats down mercilessly as I kneel in Birdie's lush garden, my fingers buried deep in the rich soil. Sweat trickles down my spine, and I can feel my shirt clinging to my back. The heady scent of roses and lavender fills the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of freshly turned dirt.

"Skylar, darling, you're working too hard," Birdie calls from her shaded perch on the patio. "Come take a break before you melt into a puddle."

I glance up, squinting against the glare. Birdie sits like a queen on her throne, a tall glass of something that's undoubtedly spiked with bourbon beside her. "I'm fine, Birdie," I call back, unable to keep the amusement from my voice. "Unlike some people, I'm not afraid of a little hard work."

"Cheeky girl," she retorts, but I can hear the fondness in her tone. "I'll have you know I've done my fair share of gardening in my day. Why, there was this one time in Morocco..."

As Birdie launches into another of her colorful stories, I return my attention to the flowerbed. My hands move almost oftheir own accord, weeding and pruning with practiced ease. It's mindless work, but there's something soothing about it. Here, with my hands in the earth and Birdie's voice washing over me, I can almost forget about the mess that is my life.

A bead of sweat rolls down my forehead, and I laugh as I swipe at it with my wrist. My skin comes away smeared with dirt and dotted with colorful petals. For a moment, I'm struck by how fitting it is—I'm a mess, inside and out.

"What's so amusing down there?" Birdie inquires, her story apparently finished.

I shake my head, still smiling. "Nothing, just thinking about how I probably look like some kind of flower-covered swamp monster right now."

Birdie's laughter rings out, clear and bright. "Oh, my dear, you could never look anything less than lovely. Even covered in dirt and sweat, you're still the prettiest thing in this garden."

Her words warm me more than the sun ever could, but I roll my eyes to hide how much they affect me. "You need your eyes checked, Birdie."

"My eyes are just fine, thank you very much," Birdie huffs. "It's your self-perception that needs adjusting."

I don't respond, focusing instead on a particularly stubborn weed. Birdie's kindness is a balm to my battered soul, but it also stirs up feelings I'd rather keep buried. Affection, gratitude, the dangerous hope that maybe, just maybe, I've found somewhere I belong.

But I know better than to let myself believe that. People leave, that's just how it is. Better to keep my walls up, to not get too attached. Even to someone as wonderful as Birdie.

"You know," Birdie says softly, breaking into my thoughts, "you remind me so much of myself at your age. All prickly on the outside, but with such a tender heart underneath."

I look up at her, my chest tight with emotions I can't quite name. "I'm nothing like you, Birdie," I say, my voice huskier than I'd like. "You're...you're extraordinary."

Birdie's eyes soften, and for a moment, I think she might cry. But then she squares her shoulders and fixes me with a stern look. "Nonsense. You're every bit as extraordinary as I am, Skylar Marie Deveraux. And don't you dare argue with me about it."

I duck my head, hiding my smile as I return to my work. The sun continues to beat down, but somehow, it doesn't feel quite as oppressive anymore.

I pause in my weeding, glancing up at Birdie with a frown, unable to ignore the obvious any longer. Something's off about her today. She's been sitting in her usual spot on the patio, she’s still chatty and complimentary as ever, but her movements are slower, more deliberate. And there's a cloudiness in her eyes I've never seen before.

"Birdie?" I call out, wiping my dirt-streaked hands on my shorts. "Everything okay?"

She blinks, focusing on me with visible effort. "What was that, dear? Oh, yes, yes. I'm fine. Just...just a bit warm, I suppose."

“Maybe you should take a break inside?”

"You know," she starts, then trails off, her brow furrowing. "I was going to say something, but it's slipped my mind."

I stand, worry gnawing at my insides. This isn't like her at all. Birdie's always sharp as a tack, ready with a witty comment or sage advice. But now...she seems to be fading the longer we’re outside.

"Maybe we should take a break," I suggest again, trying to keep the concern out of my voice. "It's pretty hot out here."

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