weren’t at my house right now with my father and daughter, I’d turn the damn phone off. A few moments of silence would be a gift but I don’t want to tempt the gods.
Shoes will start dropping eventually and I need to be able to juggle those suckers. Not one of them will touch the ground if I have anything to do with it.
When I open the door, the murmur of voices hit me in the chest. It comes out of nowhere, like a falling anvil in a bad cartoon.
I don’t slam the door like I do every night when I return home from work, announcing my presence for all those who want to welcome me home to my crumbling castle. Easy on my steps because a mouse could make my floorboards creak, I make my way down the hall but don’t round the corner.
I need to see this with my own eyes.
An English accent mingles with a child’s, both counting in unison.
In French.
I peek around the corner and Abbott is sitting with her back to me, looking up at Bella who is laser focused on my daughter.
Bella smiles when she gets to ninety-nine and points to Abbott to let her finish.
Nothing.
And then, finally, Abbott remembers. “Cent.”
“Very good!” Bella beams. She fucking beams at my daughter. “I’m so proud, Abbott!”
I can’t see her face but it doesn’t surprise me my daughter doesn’t share in her celebration. Instead, Abbott’s little shoulder rises once.
I exhale.
Abbott isn’t exactly throwing herself at Bella, but I’ll take it.
“Let’s go over the months and days of the week. When your father gets home, you can show off your new skills!”
“Okay, those are easy.”
“Well, then. You’re a pro, aren’t you? How would you like to move on to food? I can teach you how to ask your grandpa to make you bangers in French.”
“What’re bangers?”
“Hot dogs or sausages. It’s what we call them in England.”
I suck in a breath when Abbott’s tone changes—lighter than it’s been in days. “That’s so weird.”
Bella’s blue eyes go big when she grins. “No, it’s weird that you Americans name them after poor, little pooches. Hot dogs? What is that? A puppy on fire?”
Abbott giggles. It’s short lived, but I hang on to it like a desperate man.
And then a grunt.
My eyes shift across the family room. Red is hiding out, like me, watching his granddaughter and the woman I’ve been trying to tie down for years. Arms crossed over his gut, his dark eyes are intense as he takes in the same sight I am. He sees what I do.
And he lifts his chin once before turning to disappear into the laundry room.
Baby steps. Everyone in this house is fucking killing me, but we’ll get there.
Chapter 13
Rules
Bella
Rules.
So bloody many of them.
Time under his roof has clicked by at a slow, painful pace reserved only for waterboarding or torture chambers during medieval times.
I have spent hours with Cole’s standoffish, yet equally brilliant, child. The girl is like the desert-cracked earth during a rare rainy day—it doesn’t matter how much I present to her, she soaks it up and turns around for more.
I know what Cole is trying to do, forcing time together on me and his daughter. It’s what he’s wanted for years—to integrate me into his private life outside of spies, liars, secrets, and hidden agendas. This life, the one here in Virginia, where Cole Carson is a father and so protective of his child, he’s not willing for anyone to care for her other than her grandfather.
If I had allowed Cole’s family to infiltrate my heart the way I would a terrorist cell, my defenses would shatter. It’s why I refused so many times. Why I said no to every request, every plea, and every proposal.
Because Abbott Carson is about as perfect as miniature humans come. I assume, anyway. Not that I’ve had the privilege of knowing many beyond smiling at them and offering an afghani here and there, in hopes of bringing a light to their little lives.
Okay, so she’s perfect aside from not wanting me in her home. But who can blame the girl?
Not me. I feel as sorry for her as I do for myself. Cole is holding us both hostage in his picture-perfect American dream, more determined than ever to make it a syrupy-sweet reality.
It’s clear Abbott wants none of it or me—even if she can count to one hundred in French and has moved beyond basic words to colors and foods. The way she can