Mourning Wood - Heather M. Orgeron Page 0,44
moving.
When I agreed to this date, I went all in, determined to give Prissy a magical night she wouldn’t soon forget, never expecting it’d turn out to be one of the most memorable of my life.
“Where should I put her?”
This image of Wyatt, with my sleeping child cradled in his arms, will be etched in my mind for as long as there is a heart pushing blood through my veins.
“How was it?” I whisper, trying not to become emotional while signaling for him to follow me up to the apartment.
“Best night of my whole entire life!” the little faker proclaims.
“That so?” I laugh, holding the door open so he can pass through, then trailing them to her room. “In all your six years, huh?”
“Yep!” She yawns, peering at me over his shoulder. “You shoud’a seen Lydia’s stupid face when me and him showed out on the dance floor.”
I narrow my eyes toward the man in question. “Thought you couldn’t dance?”
He simply shrugs.
“Wait for me in the living room?” I ask, once he’s deposited her on her bed. “I shouldn’t be long.”
“You got it.” Wyatt bends down to press a kiss to the top of Prissy’s head, causing every last cell in my being to swoon. “Had a great time, Priss. We’ll have to do it again,” he says as he crosses the room.
“Just me and you?”
He pauses in the doorway looking back at me for permission, which I unwaveringly grant, with a bob of my head.
“Just me and you,” he echoes back.
My baby is smitten. “Night, Wyatt.”
“So, you really had a good time?” I ask once he’s left the room.
“Uh-huh.”
“And he danced?” I remove the pins she’s scratching at from her hair.
“Yep! I was so surprised,” she says, stepping out of the dress I just unzipped. “Wyatt’s got moves, Momma.”
“Does he?” I chuckle. “Slip your arms through,” I instruct after passing her nightgown over her head.
“It was just like in the movies, with everyone crowded around us.” The dreamy look in her eyes resembles the sensation warming my chest, and I think I know just how she feels.
“He’s really good to you,” I muse, shaking out her dress and draping it over the chair.
“Yeah,” she agrees, hopping back into bed. “And he’s super nice to you, too,” she presses.
“The best.”
“And soooo handsome.”
My cheeks flush. “He is definitely that as well.” I smooth her hair back, tugging the covers up to her neck before leaning down to smother her perfect little face in kisses.
“Momma?” Her voice beckons to me as I reach the door.
“Yeah, baby?”
“You think he likes us?”
“I know he does.”
She shifts to her side, propping her head up on her bent elbow. “No, I mean likes us, likes us?”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking.” Although I am. I’m just stalling for a minute—or ten—to come up with an answer.
She sighs. “I mean enough to be your boyfriend.”
“Well—I… Prissy, it’s just—”
“We’re not getting any younger, Momma.”
I snort. “We’re hardly a pair of old grannies.”
“He’s a fun dad.”
Dear Lord. This is exactly what I was afraid of. “Prissy, he’s not your dad.”
“Well, he didn’t get mad when I told everyone he was your boyfriend and was gonna be.”
“Priscilla Louise Daigle!” I’m suddenly weak and feeling a bit woozy. “Why on earth would you say that?”
“Because I want him to be.”
Tears prick the backs of my eyes as I stand there wordlessly staring into my daughter’s pleading face.
“Can you just consider it?”
I’m certainly not about to tell my six-year-old that it’s practically all I think about anymore. “Good night, child of mine,” I answer in a tone that bodes no argument.
“Night, mother of mine,” she grumbles in turn.
After shutting the door, I sag against it, replaying that conversation a dozen times, wondering if the way I handled it was acceptable, worrying I’m ruining my child’s life.
“Whit?” Wyatt calls. My heart rate increases with each footstep that draws near. “Hey.” The smile he flashed as he rounded the corner falters.
“Hey, you.” The mere sight of him has me shaking like a leaf.
“Did you change your mind about that talk? I can head on home if you’re tired.”
“No.” My reply is immediate. “You think maybe I could come with you?”
“Home?” He studies my features, no doubt trying to determine whether or not I’m serious.
I nod, swallowing hard. “To…to talk.”
“Yeah,” he says while nodding his head. “Mi casa es su casa.”
Dare I even hope?
My parents, of course, are more than willing to keep an eye on their beloved granddaughter so I can hang out with