Page 14 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer
I peek out the kitchen window and there he is exiting a big fancy SUV.
Noah.
Tall. Broad. Smoldering like it’s his side hustle.
And suddenly, all I can think is:
God help me.
Kiki barks twice, spins in a circle, and flops belly-up in the entryway. Traitor.
I head outside, heart in my throat. He looked at me this morning like he never left, like I’m still his. And damn it—my body remembers exactly what it felt like to be.
I run my hands down my chest, subconsciously touching my own tits at the thought. I glare down at my hands as if they’re the bad guy here. And?—
Fuck. My. Life.
Let’s hope he notices the mascara before he notices I put his damn shirt back on.
eight
. . .
Noah
The sun hangslow in the sky, casting a warm golden hue over the neighborhood as I pull into the driveway of my old home. Two years gone, and somehow it still looks the same—white trim in need of paint, the front yard too perfect from Elle’s relentless gardening, wind chimes swaying lazily on the porch. It’s surreal to be back. Nostalgia claws at me, but so does dread.
I tell myself I’m here for the kids. To reconnect. To fix what I broke.
Laughter drifts from the backyard. I freeze at the side gate, fingers gripping the wood. For a moment, I just listen. It’s the sound I’ve missed most. When I peek over, the sight steals my breath.
Elle.
She’s sitting at the patio table, sun catching strands of her hair, laughing at something Jill says. God, she looks the same. Strong, radiant, untouchable. The kind of beautiful that guts me because I lost the right to reach for it.
My heart kicks. My palms sweat. I steel myself and walk forward.
“Daddy!” Jill’s voice pierces the air, bright and certain. She launches across the yard, skinny limbs pumping. I kneel just in time to catch her, her arms clamping my neck like she’s afraid I’ll vanish.
“You’re home!”
“Yeah, baby girl.” My voice is rough. I kiss the crown of her head and squeeze her close. “I’m home.”
The word feels dangerous on my tongue. Like a promise I can’t afford to break again.
Jaq comes slower, jacket on, hood up despite the heat, shoulders tight. Always the wary one.
“Hey, kid,” I say carefully.
Their head jerks up. For a split second—one heartbeat—I see it. Joy. Relief. Hope. Then the shutters slam down.
“Hey.” Flat. Distant.
I let the silence stretch, even though it burns. I don’t push. Elle’s eyes flicker to mine from the table. She doesn’t intervene, doesn’t rescue me. She just lets me flounder, because she knows this is mine to fix.
“How’s school?” I try. It comes out stilted.
“Fine. Normal.”
