Just Sign Here - Cara Dee Page 0,24

tried my hand at making a frittata. Peyton had mentioned it being one of his favorites. I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, but…I was even using tomatoes in his half.

Julia wasn’t fond of eggs, though I suspected she would try it—unless I burned it. She tended to try anything Peyton liked.

It was sweet.

I cocked my head toward the stairs when I heard the unmistakable sound of Julia’s less than graceful stumble. She said something, and Peyton responded.

While waiting for the frittata to be done, I set the table in the dining area—that supposedly belonged in the eighties.

It did look kind of awful.

To be honest, I’d never given it much thought. My home was a place to sleep, a place to ensure Julia’s well-being. She’d been my sole focus for almost three years. Balancing work and my daughter had been my only task.

I wasn’t looking forward to the anniversary of Sandra’s death. Or Mona’s, for that matter.

“Daddy, open de gate, pwlease!”

“It’s okay. I’ve got her,” Peyton said.

Perfect timing. I heard the gate to the stairs open and close, and the frittata looked ready.

“Daddy say babypwoofing is impowtant, but I’m a big girl now,” Julia told Peyton seriously.

I grinned to myself and carried the last of it to the table.

“I think we listen to him on this one, sweetheart,” Peyton chuckled. “Something smells awesome, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe.” She was undecided.

Shit, I’d forgotten our coffee. And it reminded me that I didn’t know how Peyton preferred his.

I found myself wanting to know things like that, something I hadn’t cared about in the past.

“G’mornin’, Daddy!” Julia exclaimed as they rounded the corner. She was adorable in her rumpled, pajama-clad morning glory.

I smiled at her. Her pronunciation was getting better with each day. “Good morning, you two.”

Peyton was dressed casually like me, in jeans and a tee. Beautiful and striking as ever, but I wasn’t going to waste a minute to get to the bottom of his somewhat guarded smile. It was too polite. Too business.

“Peyton, help me with something in the kitchen, please,” I said, heading that way.

“Uh-oh. Do you think I’m in trouble?” Peyton joked, setting Julia down on the floor.

She giggled. “Oops?”

I waited by the coffeemaker, leaning back against the counter. Black marble. Peyton had made a face and called it “Interesting.”

As Peyton trailed in, appearing uncertain, I straightened and felt my chest constrict uncomfortably.

“Did I go too far last night?” I asked.

He shook his head but averted his gaze to the floor. “No, sir.”

“It’s not easy to believe you when you won’t look at me.” Fuck, I’d crossed a line.

“I swear you didn’t.” He adjusted one of the magnets on the fridge. “It was intense. I couldn’t deal at the end. I…I don’t know how to explain it.”

“You’re going to have to do your best to try,” I told him, feeling queasy all of a sudden. “I won’t do it again. I’m very sorry if—”

“No!” He rushed out the word and took a couple steps closer. “Please don’t. I don’t know what happened. I’ve never felt anything like it before.”

I waited. Hopeful but unsatisfied. Christ, he was worrying me. I should’ve communicated better; that was for certain.

“Please don’t stop,” he whispered. Taking another couple steps brought him within a foot of me, and he lifted his gaze to a spot near my shoulder. “Tell me what you need.”

Honestly? “Right now? I need a damn hug, but I’m—” That was all I got out before he closed the distance and hugged my middle. I blew out a heavy breath and hugged him to me. “Tell me what you need.”

“This.”

I kissed his temple and cupped the back of his head, my other hand roaming his shoulder blades and spine. “Promise me.”

“I promise.” He breathed in deeply and rested his forehead against my collarbone.

Relief flowed through me. “Were you truly all right last night?”

He chuckled awkwardly. “Uh, yeah. I left because I was literally a second away from coming. Without touching—you know.”

A slow grin took over, and I pressed another kiss to his hair. “Did you?”

“I’m not telling you,” he insisted. “Just…don’t stop, okay? You push me so far outside of my comfort zone, it’s not even funny, and it’s…it’s a rush. So, don’t stop. You promised me a journey.”

I did, didn’t I?

Very well, then.

On Tuesday, after one commercial flight and a quick drive, we arrived at Miami Executive, where our private jet for the next few weeks was fueled and ready for our departure.

“This is fucking nuts,” Peyton mumbled.

Mathis loaded our