My heart is in my throat as I pass my daughter to her waiting arms, the raw emotion of the moment so unexpected I can barely breathe.
“I’ll go make her bottle,” Nessa says quietly, squeezing my hand before moving toward the kitchen.
“Congratulations, son,” my father says gruffly, his gaze holding mine a beat before moving to Remi, and a smile splits his cheeks as he stares at his granddaughter.
“Mimi loves you, yes,” Mama says in a singsong voice, as she bounces Remi on her hip, “so very much.”
“Come to PawPaw, darlin’.” My father beams, scooping Remi up from my mother and taking the bottle from Nessa. He settles himself on the couch, talking to her in low soothing tones, her eyes fixed on him and her little hands wrapped around his where he holds the bottle.
“Your daddy always was a pushover when it came to your sister,” Mama muses, a smirk playing on her lips.
“What do you meanwas?” I goad, holding back my laugh.
“Just you wait,” my father says without taking his eyes off Remi. “You’ll be no different.”
“No waiting necessary,” Nessa chimes in from Mama’s other side.
“Hey!” I reply with faux indignation.
“You got her a puppy and she didn’t even need to ask for one.” Nessa’s eyes sparkle like she knows we’ll be addressing her sasslater.
And we will because after tonight, I have a feeling we’ll both need it.
39
JENSEN
Never in my life had I wished for time to slow down like I did the moment the calendar rolled from December to January. Nessa had relaxed a little after the anticipation of meeting my parents was no longer in play, but it had been just one more thing that had come and gone.
Nessa had impressed the hell out of Dottie and Wayne Kade, finally settling in and charming them with stories from coaching at the university and shying away from her professional life. Guilt gnawed at me over what I’d said in Remi’s room. I hadn’t meant to be critical, only relatable, but days later it still felt like I’d made a misstep.
Still, Nessa had been amazing. She’d made one of those dinners where you put everything in the baking dish, cover it, and pop it into the oven to let the magic happen. It had been damn good, and Mama had asked her for the recipe so she could try it at home.
There’d been no hiding her blush, and I’d sent her a wink which had only made her blush harder. It was adorable and just another incredible facet of Nessa Hart.
We’d also survived a sleep regression with Remi, the light of my life finally sleeping almost through the night and blessedly giving Nessa and me a much-needed break. Being up with Remi in the wee hours of the morning was a whole level of tired I’d never known, despite working countless night and double shifts in my career.
She’s fast asleep on the monitor—her chest rising and falling as she dreams—but I still poke my head into the room. I love watching her curious nature and sweet smile, undoubtedly the greatest gift, but I love this quiet too.
It’s a time to reflect, to be gracious and humble for the little girl growing before my eyes. She’s everything I never knew I needed in this life, and I’m so very much in awe that I get to be her father—that in spite of how we got here, we’re making it.
Closing the door with a quiet snick, I make a quick sweep of the house. Finding it empty, I go in search of the woman who has given me so much these last few months.
A woman I don’t want to live without.
Making my way across the lawn, the cool night air is invigorating as I ease open the shed door and step inside. The hard rock ballad of Descending North pounds through the speakers as Nessa jumps to the side, nailing the bag with a roundhouse kick before hitting it with a quick one-two punch sequence. She’s all lithe grace, moving easily around in a practiced dance that has me hard and aching in a second.
Her blonde hair is tied up in a tight bun, but little wisps have fallen around her face, and with the black hand wraps, sports bra, and spandex shorts, I’m practically feral for a taste of her.
She doesn’t take her eyes off the bag, but I know she knows I’m here.
Waiting.
Watching.
And she’s definitely putting on a show.
She completes another series of kicks, her muscles bunching and flexing in a way that’s downright maddening as I cross the floor. “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails starts playing, the moody hypnotic riff having nothing on the bombshell in front of me. Her back is to my front with only a breath between us, the wall of mirrors capturing our every move.
