“I’ll see you tomorrow evening. I love you.” He climbs out of bed. His hot naked body moves around the room as he gathers up his clothes, giving me a great view of his sexy ass.
“You’re drooling.” Amusement lilts his tone, his back still to me.
Laughing, I hurl my pillow at him. It bounces off his hard muscles and flops to the floor.
Troy grabs it and tosses it at me, catching an eyeful of my breasts. Something for him to remember while he and his brothers and their guests are being one with the wilderness. I give a teasing little shimmy to really give him something to remember.
“You’re killing me, Jess,” he groans and walks out of the room.
The sound of water showering against the tub comes from the bathroom. I glance at my phone. And now I’m the one groaning. It’s six in the morning. On a Saturday. Since I have no real plans until this afternoon, I drift back to sleep.
Unfortunately, Bailey and Butterscotch aren’t big advocates for sleeping in. Butterscotch scrambles into my bedroom a short time later and barks.
“Okay,” I grumble while contemplating the odds of getting away with putting my head under the pillow and ignoring him. “I’m getting up.”
I drag myself out of bed and go into the bathroom. Stuck on the mirror is a Morse-code message that wasn’t there last night.
It takes me a minute to decode it:Can’t wait to have you in my arms again. Love you. T.
I get ready, take the message to my bedroom, and slip it into the large floral box where I keep all of Troy’s Morse-coded messages. I fire off a text to him.
Me: I can’t wait to be in YOUR arms again
Once Bailey, Butterscotch, and I return home from our walk, I head into the backyard and gather a bouquet of flowers from my garden. I fetch a vase from under the kitchen sink, fill it with water, and place the vase with the wildflowers on the small, round patio table outside.
Then I spend the next hour weeding the flowerbeds. As I work, I mentally plan out what I’d like to do to the garden over the next year or so. Like add more flowering bushes. Maybe hydrangeas.
I push to my feet and brush my dirty hands on my jeans. At Amelia’s age, I pretended a family of fairies lived in the tree in Granny’s backyard.
The tree in my backyard has a trunk that’s perfect for those tiny doors and windows available online that turn a tree trunk into a fairy home. I bet Amelia would love that like I would’ve loved it when I was a little girl.
I pick up my phone from the table and look at her three photos. The only photos I have of her. It’s been six and a half weeks since I called Grace to ask if I can see Amelia again. Maybe she’s changed her mind. She didn’t say how long they needed to get used to the idea of me being in Amelia’s life. Before, I’d hesitated because the house wasn’t done, but it’s eighty percent there now—so close.
Plus, to begin with, I could visit her in Seattle. If that makes Grace feel more comfortable. And…and Amelia’s birthday is a week from tomorrow. I could send her a present if they’re okay with that.
I open up my contacts on my phone and stare at Grace’s number for several rapid heartbeats. I draw in a long shaky breath and tap on Call.
I release my breath, praying Grace answers. Praying she gives me the response I’m hoping for.
“Hello?” a little girl replies on the other end of the line, her voice sweet and singsong. Amelia.
I love you and I miss you.A small sob falls from between my lips, and I cover my mouth with my hand.Pull yourself together.You won’t be able to talk to Grace if you’re a blubbering mess.
“Hello?” Amelia repeats, her tone more curious this time, her voice less singsong.
“Hi, can I speak to your mother?” I ask in a super friendly voice. Tears sting my eyes. I don’t want her to stop talking, but I also don’t want to give Grace a reason to refuse my request to see my daughter. I don’t want to come off as problematic.
“Mommy!” Amelia yells.
“Indoor voice, Lia,” Grace gently reprimands.
I shut my eyes at the name she uses for my daughter instead of the one I chose. The one that honored my grandmother’s middle name. I hate that I had no say over that.
I tighten my grip on my phone, fighting the urge to hurl it into the bush.Pretend. Pretend they’re using the name I gave her when she was a precious newborn in my arms.
“Hello?” Grace’s voice comes clearly through the line, a patient lilt to it.
“Hi,” I squeak through my tightening throat. Thethump-thump-thumpingof my heart echoes in my ears. “It’s Jessica Smithson.”
