Page 100 of Her Ex's Father
Chuckling, I head back into the room and kneel before her, lifting one foot gently, massaging it through her sock until she sighs in relief. It’s hard not to connect this moment to its inverse; Maddie kneeling in front of me on the private jet, her hands on my thighs, sliding upwards…
“Better?” I murmur, pressing my thumb firmly into the arch of her foot.
“Much.” Her smile is sleepy, content. She curls against me when I sit beside her, her head on my chest, her hand on our daughter.
“I had an idea,” she says softly, after a long silence.
“For what?”
“For her name.”
I go still. My heart hammers. “Tell me.”
“Juniper.”
The word lingers in the air, sweet and strong. Nervous at my silence, Maddie turns in my arms, looking up at me with aworried gaze. “I thought of it at the shower, but I wasn’t sure… I didn’t know if you had something in mind, or…”
“Juniper,” I repeat, tasting it. It fits. Strong but soft. Rooted in the earth, like the mountains she loves.
Her eyes search mine. “Do you like it?”
“I love it,” I say, without hesitation. My throat tightens. “Juniper Bronson.”
Her smile curves slow and certain, and she burrows closer, whispering the name again like a secret only we share.
I wrap my arms around her, hold her against me, and let the quiet settle.
For the first time in decades, the future doesn’t terrify me. It feels like a promise.
Chapter 37
Maddie
The house is quiet when I wake, the kind of quiet that makes the wood beams creak louder and the fireplaces seem to sigh. Colorado mornings are like that—hushed, waiting. I pull one of Ben’s sweaters around me, soft cashmere that hangs nearly to my knees, and pad down the wide staircase. We’ve been back home for a few days after the trip to Sweden, and Dr. Furman won’t have to tell me that we’re cutting it too close to go time—I can’t imagine leaving the lodge now.
Slipping my phone out of my pocket, I text Stella back from our conversation the previous night:Nesting is definitely settling in… I’m surprised I even got out of bed this morning.
I’m halfway to the kitchen when I hear it. A voice I don’t expect, low and familiar, tucked into the silence like it doesn’t belong here.
“…wasn’t sure if this was a good idea.”
I freeze at the bottom step. My pulse spikes, dread coiling tight in my stomach.
When I round the corner into the great room, he’s there.
Derrick.
He’s slouched on the sofa, hands clasped between his knees, eyes shadowed. Hugh is standing between us, stance wide and phone in hand.
Derrick looks older than the last time I saw him, though it hasn’t even been that long. His jaw is rough with stubble, his hair unkempt. There’s none of his usual smugness, none of the polished charm he wielded like a weapon.
Just… resignation.
His eyes lift, finding mine. For a moment, neither of us speaks.
I fold my arms across my chest, instinctive, protective. “What are you doing here?”
“He arrived about fifteen minutes ago,” Hugh supplies smoothly, though his knit brows show he isn’t sure what to do with this intrusion either. Derrickisa Bronson, and Ben never told him he couldn’t come home.
