Page 114 of Wicked Love

“Your hair,” she breathes.

“You like it?” I smile and touch oneof the braids.

“I love it,” she says. “I want it.”

My heart squeezes. She wants to match me. “Would you like me to braid your hair?” I ask.

She nods emphatically.

“Do we have time?” I ask Bowie.

He glances at his watch. “Yeah, we’ve got a few extra minutes,” he says. He leans down and kisses me, which makes Becca giggle. “You look extra cute today.”

I flush and close the door behind them. “Thank you,” I say, grinning at Becca.

“You my daddy’s girlfriend!” she sings. “And you get married like?—”

“Okay! Let’s get those braids started,” Bowie says.

I laugh and the tenderness in Bowie’s eyes when I glance at him knocks the breath from my lungs.

I place a chair for Becca in front of the mirror. She bounces while I comb her hair.

“Okay, time to sit still,” I say, smiling at her in the mirror.

She listens and watches as I start braiding her hair. I’m careful to not pull too hard and she sits patiently until I’m done.

Bowie snaps a picture of us when she stands up next to me.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Thank you,” Becca adds, her head bobbing.

Gah, my heart. Am I allowed to feel this strongly about this man? About his daughter? I’ve known for a while that what I’m feeling is big. The way he’s letting me in, the way he looks at me now—it all spills over in my chest until I can barely hold it in. I want to believe he feels the same, but doubts still whisper to me now and then. He hasn’t said he loves me, but I really hope he does.

Becca studies herself in the mirror and looks so proud. “I look like Poppy!” she cries.

I laugh, putting my arm around her shoulder. “You sure do.”

The charity event is held in Denver, and there’s an array of games out on the big grassy lawn. The crowd is buzzing, and I recognize a few reporters who’ve come to snap photos of Bowie Fox, NFL linebacker, here to raise money for Down Syndrome awareness.

Becca competes in several relays with other kids and Bowie and I stand on the sidelines, cheering her on. She does really well, and when she finishes, she beams like she’s just won gold. Bowie and I whoop and clap.

Later, I’m signed up for a series of games for the adults—a bean bag toss, a hula hoop challenge, and some kind of plastic bowling pins set up on the grass. I’m typically good with this kind of thing…unless I’m nervous…and I’m extra jittery today. Maybe it’s the crowd, or the cameras, or maybe it’s the way I caught Bowie looking at me earlier, like I hung the moon.

Whatever the reason, I’m a disaster. I toss a beanbag and somehow manage to hurl it three feet to the left of the target, hitting a reporter square in the jaw. I’m still not showing aton, but I guess I still don’t know what to do with a pregnant belly because when I try the hula hoop, the hoop drops around my ankles and I trip, nearly going flying. If Bowie hadn’t closed the distance and saved the day, I wouldn’t have kept standing. Let’s not even talk about the bowling. I swing my arm back and manage to fling the ball behind me, sending a group of people scattering. I rush to grab the ball and when I bend over, I feel my leggings split down the center of my rear end. Thankfully I’m wearing black underwear, so I hope that it’s not noticeable to everyone watching.

I feel like a complete fool. My cheeks blaze and I resist the urge to run and hide behind the snack table.

But then I catch sight of Bowie.

He’s laughing. Hard. He has one hand braced on his knee, the other covering his mouth, and he’s laughing so hard, he can’t breathe. I’ve never seen him laugh like this—an uncontrollable belly laugh, tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. It’s so genuine and joyful that my embarrassment eases, and I soak in the accomplishment. I’m the one who made him laugh like this.

I grin, shrugging at him with mock helplessness, which just makes him laugh more.

I’d be a fool a thousand times over if it means coaxing this kind of laughter out of him.

When I finally give up on the games, I saunter over to him and he tugs me into a side-hug, his cheek pressing against my temple.

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