Page 33 of Owen

Trying not to be heard, I slowly move off the step and tiptoe closer to them.

“You are so easily pleased, Poppy. Maybe I should become an actor or a singer.” Out of tune, Owen sings a few lines from a song I’ve never heard before. “Maybe not. I’m not very good. Don’t tell anyone how bad that was,” he whispers. “Our little secret, right, Pop-a-doodle?”

Stealthily curving my head around the corner to get a better look, I have to cover my mouth to stifle a giggle. Owen is standing with his hands on his hips, wearing a stainless-steel vegetable strainer as a hat with the handles of two wooden spoons jammed through the holes as if he’s got alien antenna, and he’s wearing Poppy’s dress-up pink voile tutu over the top of his blue shorts and nothing else.

Even in a tutu, this man is delicious.

Poppy is looking up at Owen from the sofa as if he’s the most magical guy in existence.

Melting my heart, he keeps chatting away to Poppy, “Another secret us two need to keep”—he motions to the gap between them—“is the one where we don’t tell Mommy you got poo all over Owen’s tee shirt when we changed your diaper earlier. Or that it went up my fingernail, or that it took me five attempts to put your diaper on. Just like your nana told me, you are a wiggly worm, huh? Thank goodness for YouTube.” He points at Poppy again. “Oh, and you can’t tell your mommy that either. Don’t tell her I cheated. Tell her I was amazing.” He narrows his eyes and asks, “Do we have a deal, little Pop-a-doodle?”

Poppy claps her hands and blows a raspberry, sealing their agreement.

“Yes.” Owen punches the air. “I knew I could count on you. Right, little one, I think it’s time for your nap.” His broad frame steps around the table and scoops Poppy into his arms.

Oh my God, who is this guy who calls himself selfish and believes he is unworthy of love? He’s far from it and obviously has a kind heart in that chest, because he’s so beautiful, caring, and sweet with my daughter.

Realizing he’s coming this way, I shift back around the corner, run on my tiptoes as far as I can, not wanting to be seen, then swivel around and walk back in the same direction, shouting, “Hey, I’m home.” I sound delirious, my voice too high as I try to disguise my peeping Tom act.

“Yay, Mommy’s home.” Owen cheers and appears in the hall, greeting me with the biggest smile. My heart instantly melts with how utterly adorable they look together.

With one arm around his broad neck, Poppy is snuggled into Owen’s bare chest as she pushes the thumb of her otherhand into her little pouty mouth and mumbles, “Mamma,” quietly.

“Hey, baby girl.”

My throat instantly tightens with a flash of what life would be like if Poppy had a proper father. One who cared for her and didn’t treat her like an object he felt obliged to take every now and again. Those thoughts slice my heart wide open, my emotions bleeding out of me.

How could this man, who has known Poppy for less than a day, be more connected to her than her own father? Tears prick behind my eyes and I can’t stop them escaping.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I flick the tears away quickly as I’m pulled into the firm hold of Owen’s muscular arm. He coddles me, then kisses me on top of my head, smooshing me into a solid chest. Owen holds me until my tears subside and right on cue, Poppy pulls me back to reality with a firm tug on my nose.

I catch our reflection in the mirror, and the three of us huddled together like this makes us look like an instant family.

Like we belong.

Lightening the mood, Owen nods, then winks sexily. “I knew you’d look hot in your flight suit, Hotshot.” His voice is soft yet deep, and I know he’s trying to distract me from feeling emotional.

I nervously chuckle, stepping out of his embrace, instantly feeling stupid. Wiping my eyes with the palms of my hands, I apologize profusely, embarrassed, and unable to look at him.

“Intense day?” Owen asks, his voice deep and gravelly. His face floods with concern.

“Yeah, something like that. I’m sorry,” I apologize again, holding out my arms. “Come here, baby.” Poppy willingly moves into them as she sleepily snuggles in.

I look around to avoid questions he might have about my sudden waterfall of tears. “Where’s my mom?”

“Resting.” He looks up toward the stairs. He drops his voice to barely a whisper. “Don’t tell her I told you.” He nips at his lips worriedly. “But she’s been feeling dizzy most of the day.”

Blood zooms around my brain. “Why didn’t you call me?” I half shout.

“Shhh.” He places his forefinger over his lips. “She asked me not to,” he hisses.

My voice panicked, I ask, “Is she okay now?”

“She’s been sleeping most of the afternoon. I checked on her half an hour ago and took her a fresh bottle of water. I suggested she rest until you come home.” He pauses. “She thinks it’s the heat.”

“I wish you’d called me.” Although I know why he didn’t. My mother can be very stubborn. I guess it takes one to know one.

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