Page 30 of Single Mom's Daddies
She smiles a little. “Guess Milwaukee really is that small.”
Her eyes are on the kids, not on me. Always. Even now, when I’m standing five feet away, giving her my full attention, she’s tracking Mila’s hands and the way Alex’s brow furrows when he tries to remember a word. She’s not oblivious to me—she just doesn’t prioritize me.
It’s infuriating. It’s also oddly appealing.
We chat idly—about the school, the professors she liked, the ones I didn’t. She remembers the biology labs. I remember the security cameras. Her voice is easy, casual, but it never drifts far from the kids.
When Mila asks a question, Saffron answers mid-sentence without missing a beat. When Alex stands up too fast, she shifts her body just slightly in his direction like she’s ready to catch him if he stumbles.
I’ve seen trained agents with worse instincts.
She rises to her feet, brushing soil from her hands. “We should probably get them inside. Dinner’s soon.”
Mila groans. “Five more minutes?”
“You can finish your drawing inside,” Saffron says. “Bring it with you.”
The kids scamper off toward the deck.
And now it’s just us. Her hair’s half-loose. The sunlight is catching the edge of her cheekbone. She glances at me, finally meeting my eyes.
“You really watched butterflies in college?” I ask.
“Every chance I got.”
“Why butterflies?”
“They’re honest,” she says. “They tell you when they’re dying. They don’t pretend.”
I don’t know what to say to that. So I don’t. Instead, I say something else. Something I shouldn’t. “I think your laugh makes things bloom faster.”
She blinks. It catches her off guard. I see it. The way her breath catches. The way her lashes dip. “I—” she starts, but the words don’t come at first. She steps back, clears her throat. “I should check on them.”
She walks away. And I let her. But my eyes stay on her long after she’s gone.
Night doesn’t fall so much as it settles.
There’s a rhythm to this house after dark—a slow exhale, a soft withdrawal of breath and light and sound. Even the air feels more controlled, as if the walls themselves are sighing into discipline.
Mila is asleep. She fought it, of course, making me swear to tell her if any new butterflies arrived in the garden overnight. Alex went down easier, curling up under his wolf-print blanket, whispering something to his stuffie like it had secrets to keep.
I lingered longer than I meant to. Watched them breathe. Checked the windows. Listened to the silence.
Now I’m walking back toward the main wing, glass of bourbon in hand. I’m not even pretending it’s about work anymore. Thedossier on Ruger sits untouched in my study. I’ll deal with it tomorrow. Maybe.
At the corner of the hall, I see Saffron.
She’s barefoot, standing at the threshold of the children’s rooms, one hand resting against the frame like she’s holding herself up. Her hair is loose, a honeyed cloud around her shoulders. She’s wearing a long T-shirt and soft cotton pants—nothing provocative, but it makes my pulse catch anyway.
Then she turns.
We both stop.
She doesn’t startle. That’s the thing about her. She doesn’t flinch. Just tilts her head slightly, acknowledging me with a nod and a small, tired smile. “Sorry,” she says quietly. “Didn’t mean to bump into you.”
“You didn’t.”
“Just checking on the kids.”
