Page 61 of Fiery Romance

“My docket’s full this week,” Darrel says over the phone, “but if it’s urgent, I can recommend some—”

“No. I’m willing to wait until your schedule clears.”

He’s a renowned neuropsychologist and I’m asking last minute. It doesn’t surprise me that I can’t squeeze in. But I don’t want anyone else probing around inside my head.

“Alright then. I’ll have my receptionist give you a call.”

“Thanks.” I hang up.

My head is aching, my body’s sore from the excessive workout and I can’t keep still. The phone clatters to the desk. I bury my face in my hands, feeling like I’m drowning and there’s no life rope in sight.

A tiny voice in my head starts saying ‘why not take the deal? Abe hates you anyway. Everything you try doesn’t work out. He doesn’t listen. He doesn’t want your help. He doesn’t want to be with you. If he prefers to live somewhere else…’

I need to punch something again, but if I do, it’ll leave bruises on my knuckles this time.

No matter.

I start to push off the desk when my phone buzzes.

It’s an incoming video call from Island.

Her name on the screen does something to me. It’s like someone breathed life into a dying man. Like the sunlight peeking from behind a cloud.

The light is small and yet blinding.

I surrender to the warmth and slam my thumb on the green button.

What I see turns the tiny sliver of sunshine into a full-on, sunny day.

Island is holding Regan and the two are staring into the phone screen like twin angels. Their dark cheeks are pressed against each other as they greet me with smiles ripped straight from the heavens.

I grip the phone tighter and wonder how a heart as broken as mine can beat so hard and fast.

“Sorry to bother you, Clay.”

“It’s no bother,” I say, meaning every word.

“Regan braided her first client today and she wanted you to see.”

“Oh, did she?”

“I did, daddy.” Regan bobs her head up and down.

“Show him,” Island coos.

“Look!” Regan shoves a mannequin head at the camera.

The faceless puppet is too close. “I can’t see anything, sweet pea.”

“Pull it back here.” Island guides her. A moment later, I behold my daughter’s handiwork. It’s three big plaits that look like the frayed rope we used for drills back at the base.

I smile broadly and applaud her work. “Great job, sweet pea. You’ve got a gift.”

“She’s a prodigy.” Island pins my daughter with loving eyes. “I think it was fate that we met.”

Crazy enough, I’m starting to agree.

“Sweet pea, let me talk to Island for a bit.”

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