“Faulk knew her. She’s trustworthy,” I say.
I’m fibbing, obviously, and playing on my aunt’s mad respect for Quinn Faulkner—mainly because he married the granddaughter of another close friend—and his approval of Willow will go a long way in calming her near-grandmotherly butt down.
“Really?” Faye croons. “My, my. If Quinn trusts her, then I suppose—”
“Exactly. Don’t you worry, and don’t even think about coming home a second sooner. Gennie needs help and you ought to be with her.” I hear a doorbell in the background. “Sounds like you have someone at your door?”
“That’s the hospice nurse,” she tells me with a deflated sigh. “But this conversation isn’t over. I’ll call you later so I can hear all about this nanny.”
“Will do, Aunt Faye. Take care.”
She clicks off, and I have zero doubt she’ll be dialing me sooner than I think.
I open the door and head for the living room, not expecting the scene on the couch.
The girls are packed in close to Willow, one on each side of her. They’re all laughing at something on the show they’re watching.
Interesting. My girls don’t normally take to strangers this fast. It’s also the perfect medicine for my aunt’s jitters.
Opening the camera app, I carefully snap a picture from around the corner and open my messenger.
See? New nanny’s working out great. Everybody’s happy as a lark, I text her, adding, no reason at all to worry.
I hit send before walking to my recliner, wishing that last part were true.
I’ve got to make damn sure it stays that way, once I’ve figured out how to get a big mess of teeth and claws off my property.
The girls are still laughing like chipmunks, glued to the TV.
I don’t get it. What’s so funny about the girl on the screen washing her hair?
“Oh, Dad!” Sawyer says, no doubt catching my frown. “You just missed it. She tried putting some green stripes in her hair with food coloring—look at it!”
I manage a smile, but I still don’t see the humor.
The girls try to explain it a few more times, but I’m just fucking lost and glad when the show finally ends.
On their way up to bed, Avery and Sawyer help Willow carry the last of their clothes, including the freshly washed stuff from their duffel bags. She’s been busy washing and drying their camp clothes all day.
When she comes back down, I head up to say good night to my girls.
What I don’t expect—what hits me like a bullet—are the hugs.
Hugs and sweet praise for “finding Willow” in their words.
Shit.
I’ve tried not to notice how much they’re already connecting to her. Hadn’t dwelled on it with everything else going on.
Not till I close their doors and plod back downstairs.
Willow’s just walking in the sliding glass door when I enter the kitchen.
“How’s he doing?” I ask, ignoring the emotional shock in my gut.
“Sleeping like the big fat fluff he is,” she says with an impish grin.
I have to fight not to smile back.
She’s goddamn cute by default, yeah, but when her eyes sparkle with so much easy blue-tinged humor...their shine reaches down inside me and touches something buried.
Something it shouldn’t.
Something that’s been black as night for a long time like a starless sky over a beach with onyx sands.
“Don’t worry, I double-checked the locks. Everything’s secure.” She locks the sliding door and walks toward her room. “I’m going to hit the hay myself.” She yawns, stretching her arms overhead. “The lack of sleep is really catching up with me...”
“Good night, darling,” I whisper, hating how I stare when she stops and turns.
“’Night, Grady. And for what it’s worth, thanks again. I can’t possibly repay all you’re doing.”
I remain silent.
Once the door to her room closes, I release the fierce breath I’d held in and start moving.
Shut off the kitchen light. Lock the front door. Then go kill the rest of the lights before making my way up to my room.
The thirty-hour exhaustion should be catching up with me, too, but even as I settle into bed, my mind won’t shut up.
Snarling, I roll over, cupping my hands behind my head and crossing my legs at the ankles.
It’s not like the first time there’s a guest under my roof. Aunt Faye slept downstairs for years in the same converted porch when she was here for heavy duty babysitting, or we were hit with bad weather.
Guess it’s just different knowing it’s a blue-eyed angel with sinful wine lips and a body I’d like to turn my inner Viking loose on.
Damn.
Yeah, it’s different, and I’m an idiot for letting it be.
Knowing my daughters have already made friends with the tiger thief doesn’t sit well.
In fact, it’s pretty damn disconcerting.
Unleashing a slow sigh, I brace for the avalanche of shit pouring through my head.
The girls were so young when Brittany died.
They don’t remember how her illness stole her memories, her mind, her soul...
They don’t remember how she didn’t know who they were, how the disease took that from her, or how she didn’t know who I was, either.
The disease obliterated our love.
Neurological conditions are no fucking joke. Hers hollowed her out, left her little more than a brittle shell of a person when she finally passed.
I say finally because it was a long, grueling road for her.
For us.
A road lined with hell and the sickest emotional torture known to man.
It left me alone with a husk of the woman I pledged my life to—every last bit of her gone—devoured from the inside out by an invisible demon no one in their right minds would ever summon.
She barely weighed ninety pounds when she died. Hadn’t been able to eat for weeks. Her body couldn’t function in so many ways.
In hindsight, I blame myself for keeping her alive longer.
I was the jackass who insisted on the feeding tube, still praying for a miracle, not fucking ready to lose her.
If I hadn’t been so selfish, if I’d just let her go, she might have died with an ounce of dignity.
Instead, thanks to me, she’d withered until there was nothing.
I’ve saved dozens of lives overseas, faced down foreign enemies in Iraq and domestic criminals back home, and survived a slug in my shoulder that nearly killed me on a sweltering street in Baghdad.
I got used to hearing the word miracle in the service more times than I can count. I started to believe in them and that’s what set me up for a fall.
But the one thing I couldn’t survive, couldn’t accomplish, was save my wife.
Brittany hadn’t gotten out of bed for over two months before the end came.
The memories still break my heart all over again like a jackhammer.
She was so alive, once upon a time.
So charming and beautiful and fun.
The day she stepped out of the bathroom screaming with the positive pregnancy test in her hand, waving her arms, she’d leaped on the bed and jumped up and down like a five-year-old.
We did it!
We made ourselves a baby, times two.