As if there was anything else she would rather do.
Chapter 16
Lucas walked Sophie and Maddie out to the sidewalk. He would have offered to help his daughter with her helmet, but he’d learned his lesson on that months ago. Apparently big girls didn’t need to have their helmet straps fastened by their dad. Something told him that information was just the tip of the iceberg.
“Thanks for taking her tonight,” he said to Sophie.
“Are you kidding? Me and the Peanut are going to have loads of fun.” She secured her own helmet, then leaned closer so that only he could hear. “Something tells me her dad will too.”
Lucas shook his head. He’d definitely created a monster by confiding in his sister that he felt ready to move on. She had only been mildly annoying before, but armed with this new information, she’d be downright intolerable. “We’re just going to watch a movie,” he said in an attempt to downplay the situation. Yeah, fat chance of that.
“Are you going to Netflix and chill?” Maddie asked. Lucas and his sister turned as one to see his daughter perched upon her hot-pink bicycle. Lucas had wanted to get her one that resembled a mountain bike, but she had insisted on the sparkly pink one, complete with a white basket on the front and metallic silver and pink streamers dangling from the handlebars.
“Where did she learn that?” he asked his sister.
“Don’t look at me?” she practically squeaked. The wide-eyed innocent look might have worked for Maddie, but on Sophie it fell a bit short.
Since he was absolutely sure his daughter was oblivious to the euphemism, Lucas let it go. “Call me if there are any problems.”
“We’ll be fine.” Sophie said as she kicked one leg over the seat of her bike. “But I expect a full report tomorrow.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening,” he deadpanned. Clearly a few boundaries had to be redefined.
Sophie shot him a knowing smile, and then they were off. Lucas stood on the sidewalk, watching his daughter pedaling alongside her aunt until they’d turned the corner. He looked back at the house. Inside, a beautiful woman was waiting for him. But as he walked up the stone path, he grew increasingly aware of how anxious he was. He’d never been nervous before. Well, except maybe before his first time. In some ways, that’s exactly how he felt. Paige more than made him feel alive again; with her everything felt brand-new.
He drew a deep breath. Stop being such a wuss, he told himself. The “It’s just like riding a bike” expression popped into his mind, and while he would normally have laughed off something like that, the truth was, he wanted their night to be perfect. Not so much for him—because let’s face it, sex was great for a guy no matter how it happened: slow, fast, rough, tender—but for her.
On the surface, Paige Parker had been easy to read. A tough-as-nails ballbuster who not only wanted everything her way, but usually got it. Over the last few days, though, her protective layers had started to peel away. She’d surprised him in a hundred different ways, and yet a part of her was still guarded. If only he could get her to open up a bit, to lower her defenses and let him in.
Lucas opened the front door to find Paige standing in the hallway in front of the large oak-and-glass curio.
She smiled when she saw him. “That’s quite a seashell collection you have.”
“Probably ought to pack some of them up.” Lucas knew Paige well enough now to realize just how crazy it must have made her to see all those beachcombing souvenirs so haphazardly displayed. Hell, he was surprised she hadn’t rearranged them the way she had parts of his kitchen. Then again, perhaps she felt as though that was one area that was off-limits. Organizing souvenirs from time he spent with his late wife was hardly the same as lining up mugs or sorting his pantry by food group. He was fairly sure he’d heard her shuffling things around on the porch the other night as well. But the items in this case were different. They were a personal time capsule. And while he wasn’t about to bury them in the yard, it was time most of them found their way to the attic. “There’s a lot in that case that should be packed away.”
Her expression softened. “If you’re talking about the picture”—she nodded toward the cabinet—“I disagree.”
Lucas followed her gaze to find that the framed photo of him and Jenny standing in front of their newly acquired inn was no longer tucked behind driftwood. Paige had moved it front and center. “You do?” How could someone who was interested in him be okay with a picture of his late wife staring at her every time she walked through the door.
Paige nodded. “That photo marks the establishment of this inn,” she said. “And while I do think the display could do with a bit of tidying…”
“Ever the organizer,” he teased.
“Always,” she said.
She stepped closer. “Lucas, I don’t think you should try to hide away your memories.” Something told him she wasn’t only referring to the photo. “They are part of who you are, and maybe more importantly, they are part of Maddie.” She reached out and placed her hand on his arm. “She needs to know about her mom. Don’t ever feel like you have to change or apologize for that, for me or anyone else.”
“She’s starting to forget her,” he said. It broke his heart when he would mention something about Jenny, something Maddie at one time could recall, and his daughter would draw a blank. In a way, it felt like losing her all over again, one piece at time.
“All the more reason to keep those memories alive.”
“You’re pretty amazing, do you know that?”
She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “So I’ve been told.”
He chuckled. “Looks like I also need to add modesty to the list.”
Paige drew back. “You’re making a list?”
“A mental one,” he said. “But yes.”
“Of?”
“Interesting facts about Ms. Paige Parker.”
She smiled. “Don’t you mean Ms. Paige Parker, certified pain in the ass?”
Lucas cringed. Pain in the ass or not, he hadn’t intended for her to hear that, even when all she was to him was a disgruntled guest. “You know about that, do you?”
Paige nodded. “Walls here aren’t so thick.”
“To be fair, we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot.”
She raised a brow. “And whose fault would that be?”
“You have a point.”
“It wasn’t all your fault,” she conceded. “Maybe only eighty percent.”