“I agree. Why do I make you nervous?”
My tongue peaks out, wetting my top lip before sweeping down along my bottom lip while I contemplate my answer. I watch his eyes follow the movement of my tongue, then watch him shift again. “I moved to Broward to put down roots for my daughter and me. I won’t let anything get in the way of that.”
“Good for you.”
I turn back to the counter before opening the bread and pulling out a couple of slices. I reach across the counter, digging through remaining items left on the counter until I find the turkey and sliced cheese. “I think you could get in the way.”
“Or maybe I can help you put down those roots.”
I bobble the cheese in my hands because he makes it sound like a serious offer. I don’t say anything for a long minute, while I force myself to open the cheese and lay it on the bread, then cover it with the sliced turkey. Knowing Stella’s very particular tastes, I don’t use any condiments, but add the other slice of bread to finish out the sandwich. To keep my hands busy while I try to process what to say next, I take the time to open the paper plates he bought, placing the sandwich on one before grabbing some diced watermelon to finish out her lunch.
I reach into the fridge to snag a juice box and then turn to face him fully once again. I keep my face neutral, doing my best to make it impossible to read, a solid mask hiding every thought and feeling I might be having. Because there are a lot of them.
“I need to do it on my own.” I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. Now it’s his turn to be silent, eyes studying me intently, as he draws a mask down on his own face. We stand there for a few moments, in complete silence, my hands clenching around Stella’s juice box, tension thick and heavy between us. Finally, when I can’t stand it anymore, I turn away toward the back door, muttering under my breath, “I have to feed Stella.”
His hand on my arm stops me. His fingers wrap gently around my wrist. When I lift my eyes to meet his, it’s to find him studying me with an intensity that makes me warm and uncomfortable. His gaze moves over my face, and silence stretches between us for several heartbeats. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and deep. “Sometimes, to get the roots deep enough to take root, you need two people to plant them.” His grin is wicked. “And I’m an excellent planter.”
I feel my brow wrinkle as the tone of his voice takes on a slightly seductive tone with his last statement, but before I can question him further, Stella comes whirling into the house. Her inky curls have been pulled back into a ponytail, but it’s all askew, and half the curls are hanging around her flushed cheeks. There is dirt, and what I’m sure is dog slobber, smeared across her chin, and the pale pink shirt she’s wearing has a matching streak running across it.
“Mama! My Huck is hungwy. He wants cake.”
“Well, I don’t think Huck is allowed to have cake, sweetheart.”
“Can I hab cake?” Stella bounces on the balls of her feet, watching me with a sweet smile blooming on her face. I flick a finger down my daughter’s nose. “You need to give up on the cake, sweet pea. You can have a turkey-and-cheese sandwich and some watermelon. If you eat it all, we might have a little bit of the ice cream Mr. Owen brought.”
“Yay!” Stella dances across the kitchen to where her plate is on the counter. I force myself to follow along behind her. The guys had already set up the small, four-person table I’d brought with me, so I slide Stella’s plate in front of one of the chairs. “Here you go, princess. Your first meal in our brand new home.”
“Yay!” She cheers again. “I lub our new home, Mama.”
I lean over to press a kiss against her forehead. “I love you, Stella.”
When I look across the kitchen, Owen is watching the two of us with that puzzled look back on his face. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that Owen with his incredibly warm hands, and stupid fucking dimple, doesn’t change a thing.
But I know I’m lying to myself.
Chapter Three
Owen
She was even more fucking beautiful than I remembered. And that was saying a lot because my memory when it came to Tristan Maddox appeared to be pretty fucking excellent. I hadn’t been prepared for her this morning.
When Monroe had texted that she wouldn’t make it to our morning breakfast because she’d let strangers sleep in her house, the barbaric, overprotective brother inside of me had taken control. Monroe was merely too naïve and trustworthy, despite what she might think, and it would be entirely too easy for someone to take advantage of her, or worse, hurt her.
I’d stormed over to her house, ready to do battle, not only with her but with the stranger who had taken up residence in her spare bedroom. It didn’t matter that Monroe assured me her guest wasn’t an ax murderer, or that said guest had been carting her three-year-old daughter with her when they’d arrived—I had seen red.
The little girl had come in first. Stella Maddox was a cute little thing, but children weren’t exactly my forte so I’d looked at her and dismissed her immediately. Which made me an asshole, but whatever. Then Tristan had walked into the room, and it had felt like the entire fucking world had simply stopped.
She looked like a pretty porcelain doll with clear, smooth skin and full, plump lips. Her hair had been up on top of her head, but the inky-black tresses had already started to tumble from the knot she’d tossed them in, so a few strands had danced freely around her face. The baggy cotton shirt and ripped faded jeans had hidden most of her body from me, but it hadn’t mattered.
My heart had stuttered and stopped and that stupid phrase I’d heard all my life, mo chuisle mo chori, had moved through my fucking head like a marching band. We’d all grown up hearing the stories. In the Gallahanger family, you were blessed, or cursed depending on how you looked at it, with knowing you had met the one person destined to be yours, the instant you met them. It had started several generations ago, and somewhere along the way, the legend had been given the name mo chuisle mo chori, which roughly translated to “my pulse of my heart.”
I’d thought it was a stupid story, passed down from generation to generation to explain why the men in my family were so over the top devoted to their wives. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think being a devoted husband is necessarily a bad thing, but sometimes it had appeared as if my father bordered on being pussy whipped, and it wasn’t something I wanted to sign up for.
Until now.
Fucking mo chuisle mo chori.
She had changed since I’d seen her that morning, from the shirt and jeans, into a pair of jean shorts and a tank top, and remembering the feel of her in my arms earlier, I had to fight to keep from simply leaning forward and laying claim. I had a pretty healthy sexual appetite, and I’ve never had any trouble filling it, but something about Tristan takes it to the next level.
She’s settled Stella at the table with her cold-cut sandwich—though how the little girl is going to eat it without any mayo or mustard is beyond me—and slides into the seat right next to her. Stella is telling her some story involving Huck—I think it’s about the two of them playing chase with Roe, but with the way she’s babbling a mile a minute, I can’t understand more than every fourth or fifth word. I guess I’ll have to brush up on my toddlerease.