Page 52 of Anything For This Love

“What time is it?” she asks.

I check my phone before replying. “Two minutes ‘til midnight.” Chloe has been asleep now for nearly three hours. We received a text from Nell when she went down for the night. She’ll be up early in the morning. I plan on getting up with her to let Abby sleep in. She never gets that luxury, and she’s going to need it tomorrow for the drive back home.

“Are you going to kiss me as we ring in the new year?”

“I haven't decided yet,” I tease, and she elbows me in the stomach.

“Kidding,” I chuckle. “There’s no other way I’d want to spend the first and last second of any year.” I spin her in my arms and lift one hand to cup her face. “Every year, for the rest of my life.” My lips descend on hers, a sweet and gentle connection at first. Her lips part and my tongue slips inside as light bursts beyond my closed lids. I deepen the kiss, holding her tighter against me. She grips the lapels of my jacket and tugs. Bracing my hand on her back, I dip her, never breaking the seal of my mouth on hers. When I return her to a standing position, I break the kiss. She smiles up at me, the light from the fireworks reflecting in her eyes.

When we disembark, there are thankfully no reporters waiting on us and the crowd has started to disperse now that the fireworks finale is over. We drive home with the heat cranked up. Abby shivers next to me, her arms wrapped around my bicep and her head resting on my shoulder. I slide my hand to her thigh and rest it there while I drive, the sound of Stevie Nicks’ smoky voice crooning over the speakers. Abby’s soft voice slides over the nameRhiannonas she sings along, the sound an octave higher and harmonizing perfectly.

“I’ve missed hearing you sing. You have such a beautiful voice.”

“You should've heard my dad sing. He was amazing. Ethan sounds a lot like him. He could play a guitar and a banjo and was decent with a fiddle. Very musically inclined,” she adds.

“I wish I could’ve met him.”

“I wish you could’ve, too.”

When the song changes over, Abby continues to sing along with it. She sits up and belts out the chorus toAll I Wanna Do Is Make Love to You. I glance over and point at my chest. “Me?” I ask playfully. She leans her back toward the door and points at me with both hands, nodding as she continues to sing. In the last verse, the woman’s sultry voice sings of a man recognizing his eyes in a child he knew nothing about, and my smile falters. It’s so similar to what happened to me. The shock and disappointment. The instant awareness of missing out. I felt it all.

Abby notices the change in my demeanor and instantly stops singing, silencing the radio. “What’s wrong?” she asks, her brows pinched in concern, so I tell her.

“But it’s okay,” I hurry to add. We’re a family now. I’m never missing out on anything again.”

“You’re damn right, you aren’t,” she declares, the side of her mouth tipping up in a half smile. I reach over and lace my fingers through hers, holding her hand for the rest of the drive.

We find Nell asleep in the recliner, the remote resting in her lap while a serial killer documentary plays on the screen. I quickly switch it off, not wanting her to wake to that. It would give the poor woman nightmares. I shake her awake and she stares up at me with bleary eyes. I pick up the video monitor from the table beside her and help her to her feet.

“It’s awfully late. Why don’t you stay the night? I have a spare room you can sleep in.”

“I’m notthatold,” she replies jokingly. “I can still drive home at,” she pauses, glancing at her watch, “one in the morning.”

“Of course you can, but you don’t have to.”

“I’ll be fine,” she assures me with a pat on the cheek. Pushing her arms through her coat sleeves, she slips her shoes back on.

“Did you have a nice time?”

“Mostly,” I reply honestly, remembering the moment that reporter asked about my relationship with my daughter. My jaw ticks as my fists clench at my side. Luckily, Nell has her back to me and I manage to relax before she looks my way.

“Mostly?” she asks, quirking a brow.

“Yeah, there were reporters there.”

“Say no more,” she offers and my shoulders sag with relief. She’s been around our family long enough to know the kind of trouble the media can bring with them.

“Until next time,” she offers, slipping her purse onto her shoulder and giving me a quick hug. I lock the door behind her and head upstairs, stopping by Chloe's room. Abby is crouching next to her bed and I watch as she brushes a rogue curl from our daughter’s face, placing a gentle kiss to her cheek. She stands and I lead her to our room by the hand. We change into our pajamas and slip beneath the covers, curling into each other. I hold her close, skimming my fingers over her bare arm. The motion must be soothing because she’s asleep within seconds. I quickly follow her into dreamland.

The next morning, I hear Chloe’s door creak open and her feet shuffle down the hallway. I throw the covers off my legs, thankful I thought to wear pajama pants. Grabbing a tee shirt, I walk out my door just as Chloe reaches the stairs. My heart leaps into my throat, fear of her taking a tumble squeezing my insides. She always navigates them with no problem, but we’re always right there with her. I may need to consider putting in a baby gate to keep her from trying to go down them by herself.

I whisper-shout her name to get her attention and her head snaps up. “Daddy!” she cries in excitement, running to me. I quietly pull the bedroom door closed and pick her up, carrying her down the stairs and into the kitchen. Once I have her settled into her highchair, I start the coffee pot and slice a banana for her while I wait on her toast to get done. I pull out my laptop and scour the news outlets and gossip blogs to see if any clips of Abby’s comments have popped up yet. I don’t find anything on my initial search, but that could just mean nothing has been uploaded yet. I’ll have to keep an eye out for any mention of her or our family.

Two hours later, Abby comes downstairs to join us, her hair and clothes rumpled. I secretly love seeing her all messy like this. Not only does it remind me of what we did last night, but it also shows she’s comfortable here, comfortable with me. She’s not putting on a front or pretending to be perfect like a lot of the women I dated before. Once, I dated a woman for six months who never let me see her without makeup.

“Good morning.”

“Mornin’,” she replies, her voice still scratchy from sleep. “How long have you been up?”

---