Page 28 of Daddy's Heart

“Or it’s ‘hell no’ because he hasn’t found the right person to have themwith. Until now.”

I want to believe that. Ireallydo. But the fear? It’s like wearing emotional ankle weights.

“I should probably step back,” I say, the idea stomping on my heart like a roach to be crushed. “Before this gets too complicated. It’s just fun, right? He probably won’t even call, or if he does, call for the subtle…thanks for the fun but gotta run talk.”

“Emery Rose Langston.” Logan marches my way, grabbing the stupid gauze I’ve been holding for five minutes out of my hand. He throws it over my head, it bounces off the wall just under the CPR info graphic, then grips my shoulders with a soft shake. “That man looks at you like he wants to put you in one of those baby papoose things and carry you around everywhere. You think you’re complicated? Have youmethim?”

The door chimes go off before I can answer and relief slacks my muscles as Logan leaves me in the supply room.

A second later, I hear Mrs. Paterson, here to go over her husband’s bill even though her insurance pays for it all. She’s just lonely and girl, I get it.

Pretty sure lonely is what’s gotten me into this pickle myself.

I work my way out of the closet and into the main office. Mrs. Paterson is going over each line item with Logan, who throws me a quick eye roll before going back to explaining why there’s a fifty-dollar charge for a Q-tip on her itemized insurance bill.

Back behind my desk, I go over my light schedule for the day on my laptop, but concentration is nearly impossible. My eyes drift to the front windows, taking in the sunshine on Wildfire’s Main Street before my body goes stiff.

There’s Colt across the street. Talking to Rebecca Martinez. She’s pretty. Blonde. Older than me, maybe, but with a figure like a Victoria’s Secret model. She’s laughing at something he said, touching his arm like she owns real estate there, and suddenly I’m one second away from dry-heaving into the candy bowl we keep by the front door.

“Emery…” I suddenly realize Logan is standing in front of me, following my gaze out the window.

“Oh,” I whisper. “Sorry. I was distracted. I’ll—”

“Come on, Emmy, that’s Rebecca Martinez. The vet tech. Happily married to her high-school sweetheart.Threekids. About as likely to have an affair as a Scarlet Macaw. You know, they mate for life? I was watching this wildlife documentary on…”

But I can’t hear him anymore. My brain has already filled in the worst-case scenario montage: Colt smiling, Colt touching, Colt finding someonenormal. Someone child-free and drama-free and way too put-together to ever trip on a Lego at 2 a.m.

So maybe not pretty blonde Rebecca Martinez, butsomeone.

“I need some air,” I croak and bolt out the back at the same time as my phone buzzes.

Colt: Did you eat since breakfast?

I feel like I have whiplash from the way my emotions are bouncing from one to another. A second ago, I was imagining seeing Colt with another woman. Having to watch them happy every day and know that he would never be mine.

And now my heart is fluttering over the words on my phone screen as I watch myself typing out a reply.

Me: Coffee counts, right?

Colt: No. Eat something. Now.

I stare at the screen, every fiber of my being wanting to call him, hear his voice, and do as he says. Until I have to blink away tears, the messages going blurry in my vision.

How can I ever possibly be enough for him? How can I ever measure up to the pretty girls who are going to tempt him away?

Why am I even thinking of this as a relationship, when for him it was probably just a bit of fun with the girl who happened to be there?

Colt:Answer me. Tell me what you’re eating. And, just so you know, I had new locks installed at your house. No keys. Code is 11562.

Heat flares in my neck, my chest, other places. But I don’t respond.

I should. A thank you would be the polite thing to do. But I don’t.

One minute later, the phone is ringing. It’s him of course, but I let it go to voicemail.

And when Logan locks up, I’ve decided what I need to do. I need to go cold turkey on everything to do with Colt Boone.

Three hours later,I’m scrubbing the already-sterile counters in my house like they insulted me when there’s apoundingat the door. Not a knock. A declaration.

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