Page 44 of His Relentless Angel

“That stupid boy yanked Lainey’s ponytail really hard and called her fat. So I punched him. He deserved it.”

He totally did. But that’s not what I say. “As noble as that is, you know fighting is wrong, and it could get you into a lot of trouble.”

“I don’t care if I get in trouble,” Grayson says fiercely, holding back his own tears and tightening his arms around Lainey, who is already a head shorter than him, even though she’s a few months older. He sets his chin on top of her head, and his lower lip wobbles. “He hurt her.”

I don’t think my brows could go up any higher. “You know, you’ve been pulling her hair since y’all were babies,” I say, pointing out the irony.

“That’s different,” he insists, smoothing his hand down her wet hair sticking to the back of her neck.

“How?”

He doesn’t answer, even though I wait expectantly for well over a minute. Isaiah drapes a slightly damp towel over my back, the both of us soaking wet, and I rise, looking to him for answers as to what to do or say next. He doesn’t have any more of a clue than I do, so we wait silently until Lainey’s tears turn to sniffles. She climbs into the third-row seating, followed by Grayson, who buckles himself in next to her.

“What a day,” Isaiah says, blowing out an exhausted sigh when he parks the Suburban in James and Shayla’s driveway with four to-go bags of brisket, sausage, and sides since I was craving barbecue to go with this hot summer day.

“It’s only three o’clock,” I say, flashing my phone at him.

“No fucking way,” he exclaims, genuinely shocked and double-checking the time on his phone. “It feels like it should be ten o’clock. No wonder their parents are so damn tired all the time.”

“And why we’re only having two.”

“Three,” he counters with narrowed eyes.

“One,” I counter back in challenge.

“Fine, two it is.”

I beam and lean across the black leather center console to kiss him before we help the kids out and into the house.

Chapter 18

Isaiah

Two days later, after we’ve received the call that our offer was accepted, we meet with the home inspector, who has the kind of aged hands that are a nod to how long he’s been at this profession. While the inspector runs down his checklist, starting with the foundation and ending in the attic, looking for any issues that may need to be addressed before we close on our house, Bailey and I take our time discussing the design in each room. She brought her laptop with the collages she made for the home she picked out for us when she was seventeen.

“I have no idea what I was thinking when I picked this wallpaper,” she says when we step into the hall bathroom, turning her laptop around to show me a yellow to brown circular pattern reminiscent of the nineteen-seventies.

“You obsessive little thing,” I call her—my favorite for teasing her. “It looks like the polyester polo shirt my mom gave me one Christmas. I think I wore it once to game night so I could send her a picture of me wearing it before I donated it.”

“Ah, yes, that would be it.” Bailey’s cheeks turn bright pink. “I think I still have that picture,” she admits under her breath. She deletes the wallpaper and then searches Pinterest for inspiration, adding a muted teal design patterned with delicate outlines of plant leaves in gold.

The bedroom next to the primary is my favorite on the tour—the future nursery. She’s picked out a matte, dark grayish-green paint color for the wall the natural wood crib will be pushed against, with matching breezy curtains to hang over the window. On the wall opposite is where she wants custom bookcases built and installed.

“Two floor-to-ceiling bookcases?” I try to visualize it. “Think a baby needs that many books?”

Bailey gives me an oh please expression. “You give the kids books for every single birthday and Christmas. And you left your computer open to a website with fantasy-related board books. Our kids will have more books than they can read in a lifetime.”

The fact that she’s taken my favorite hobby into consideration makes me all misty-eyed, envisioning reading to our future kids in the velvety gray rocking armchair she wants to place in the corner with a tall, dimmable floor lamp behind it. It’s truly astounding just how many ways my angel has come up with to show me how much she loves me.

We meet with the inspector by the front door another hour later, who is wiping away sweat on his reddened face with a bandana after inspecting the sweltering attic, my mind a blur of colors and dollar signs. He tells us, “I don’t see any major concerns. Just some minor details that I’ll highlight in the report and send to you within a few days.”

We shake hands, and he motions for us to leave since he has to lock up and put the key back in the lock box.

I cup Bailey’s elbow and ask the inspector, “Do you think you could give us a few minutes?”

“How long we talking?”

“Just ten or so. Need to check something in the bathroom.”

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