Page 22 of Tinsel in Telluride

She heaves a sigh—one even I can see is filled with nothing but love—and leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Okay. Last time though.”

“Sea,” Zach repeats as he lies back and snuggles down into the comforter. He clings to the stuffed horse he arrived with, and I get the feeling he’s never without.

Leaning against the doorframe like a damn voyeur, I watch as Leigh’s shoulders rise with an inhale, and when they fall, she begins to sing.

My jaw drops, and if I wasn’t already adhering to a vow of silence in order to not wake Zach again, I’d be too stunned to make a sound.

The lullaby isn’t a happy one, only made more hauntingly beautiful by the woman who takes each word and gives it life. I swear I’ve heard it somewhere before, though I’m not sure where. It’s about a mother singing to her daughter, telling her to go where the wind meets the sea—to follow the truth but not lose sight of who you are and drown.

There is no way it's a kid's bedtime song. At the same time, I completely understand why Zach likes it. Especially when it’s Leigh singing like she is right now. It’s almost ethereal. Which is not a word I would ever use to describe the blonde spitfire. But this vulnerable side she saves for her son—this side of her I didn’t know existed—it’s magic.

Lost in my thoughts, I don’t notice the room go silent or Leigh move to stand in front of me. It’s only when she grunts that I look up and find her soft and loving gaze has been replaced with daggers.

“Out. Now,” she rasps low enough there’s barely any sound.

And just like that, we're back to the inevitable fight brewing between us. It needs to happen, but now that I’ve seen her with Zach, I’m not sure I want to.

I just want to be on the same page.

Sliding out of the doorway, I gesture for her to lead the way and follow silently behind.

When she reaches the kitchen, she grabs the bottle of tequila and points a finger at the couch in the attached living room. “Sit. Now.”

“Do you want me to get you a glass?”

“Oh no, the time for glasses and polite conversation has passed.” There’s fire in her gaze as she twists off the cap and brings the bottle to her lips…and takes two long pulls of what is absolutely not shooting tequila—not that I’m about to correct her. “Right now, you’re going to get your ass outside, and we are going to get a few things straight.”

It might be the point-blank order, or maybe it’s the fire in her gaze paired with the knowledge that—despite her hating me—I know what it sounds like hearing her cry my name when she comes. Either way, I’m pretty sure there’s no world in which this situation should make my dick twitch. Yet here I am, ready to mutter an emphaticyes, ma’amand do whatever she says.

“It’s forty-one degrees outside,” I remind her softly, not wanting to talk back, but also my toes are only just getting feeling back in them.

“And?”

“Even by the fire, it’s fucking cold.”

Leigh huffs a sardonic laugh. “Well, you should have thought of that before you came barging in here, waking up my over tired, out of sorts toddler. Who, I might add, wouldn't even be out of sorts if it wasn’t for your insistence that I had to comehereto do my job.”

Is she fucking kidding me?

If I wasn’t ready to fight, I am now.

“It seems to me you are forgetting some key details in that recap, don’t you think? How about the part where you never toldme about the fact we made a fucking child together, so that’s why I had to do whatever it took to get you here?”

Okay, so that might be stretching the truth a little, but I don’t give a shit. I am not the only one at fault here.

I eat the space between us in two long strides until I’m only inches in front of her. She cranes her neck to meet my gaze, and I zero in on the small vein bulging just above her left eye.

“Outside,” she demands through a clenched jaw.

“No.”

Her chest brushes against mine as her breath hitches, her voice straining to keep it together. “Luca, I swear to God, I will kill you if that little boy wakes up again. So if you want to keep your body void of any kitchen knives, I suggest you get your savory, little Italian ass outside.”

God, she’s delicious when she’s riled up.

I arch a brow. “My ass is savory?”

Never did I imagine her being an ass kind of woman, but I’ll save that away for later.

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