Page 68 of One and Only

Olive was quiet. “You don’t draw very good, either.”

He laughed, warm and rich, and my toes curled up inside my fuzzy slippers. “I do great with a football, though, don’t I?”

“Mm-hmm.”

I leaned against the wall, listening to the scratch of pencil on paper, closing my eyes as I imagined the sweet scene. But once I popped my head around the corner, I’d interrupt it.

This is why we’d done this.

He’d get hundreds and hundreds of nights with her, instead of every other weekend, scrambling to catch up for lost time.

“I’m really good at drawing,” she said in that sweet little voice.

“You get that from your momma,” Beckett answered. “She’s always been artistic.”

It was so unbearably attractive that he and Josie had such a healthy relationship. That he spoke well of her and respected her. And that at moments when only his daughter could hear him, he said complimentary things.

Not my type.

Not my type,I reminded myself.

It was shockingly hard to remember sometimes.

Watching him sign autographs for little kids.

Falling onto the ground, laughing deep from his big chest when I tore his flags off in the charity game.

When he relaxed, when he felt comfortable to be himself and not hold everything so tightly bound, he was impossible to look away from.

Moving slowly, I peeked beyond the doorframe. Olive was lying with her stomach on the carpet, one elbow on the floor as she colored on a big piece of paper on top of a thick book. Her feet were crossed at the ankle, shifting back and forth as she concentrated on the paper.

Beckett sat on the floor, too, his back braced against the bed and his long legs stretched out next to Olive.

“Greer is good at drawing too,” Beckett added. He was watching his own paper so closely that he hadn’t noticed me yet.

Olive’s colored pencil slowed, and she twisted her lips in thought. “Maybe she wants to color with us.”

Beckett glanced at her, studying her face. “Would you like that?”

She nodded immediately. “I like Greer. She has nice eyes.”

Beckett smiled. “I think she has pretty eyes too.”

My cheeks flushed warm, and I was just about to back away from the door when Olive shook her head, selecting a different shade of the color pencil. “No. Not pretty. I can see her nice through her eyes.”

My heart lurched, like some great big pulse of joy couldn’t quite push through my veins.

Beckett slowly lowered his pencil and stared incredulously at his daughter. “You mean you can tell she’s a good person from her eyes?”

Olive nodded. “That’s why I like Parker too. I can see his nice too.”

The bridge of my nose tingled ominously, a telltale burn pressing at the back of my eyes, and I willed that shit back. I’d already cried once that night because she hugged me and was not trying to keep that streak alive.

The hug was worth it, though, because nothing I’d ever done had felt so hard won as her skinny little arms tight around my neck.

I shifted my weight to my other foot, and Beckett caught the movement out of the corner of his eye.

I smiled, walking into the room like I hadn’t just been shamelessly eavesdropping. “You two have been hard at work up here.” Carefully perching on the end of her mattress, I made sure my legs didn’t brush against Beckett’s arm. “Can I see?”

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