Page 106 of Wishing Hearts

He doesn’t respond verbally, just leans in and brings his lips to mine. It’s brief, but even the smallest kiss from Harrison is one I hoard like gold.

“Winnie,” he says, stepping back. Her head perks. “I’m going to run over to my coworker’s house really quickly. Sam will be here while I’m gone.”

“Okay, Daddy,” she says, face back in her book.

“Okay, then,” Harrison says to me. “Should only take me half an hour.”

“Sounds good, stud. See you soon.”

Harrison gives me a quick smile before stepping off into the laundry room. A minute later, the garage door opens, and Tigger is nudging me in the leg with her ball. I huff a laugh, opening my palm, and Tigger drops the ball happily, her stump wiggling.

“Winifred, wanna join me outside for a bit?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says, closing her book and scooting off her chair. In a flash, she’s put on her boots and is running out the door.

I follow as Tigger circles my legs. As soon as we’re in the backyard, I toss the ball as far as I can toward the fence. Tigger races off after it. There’s a bite in the air tonight, a gentle whisper of wind that has me shivering ever so slightly in my short-sleeve tee as I watch Tigger come to a quick halt in front of the ball.

“Winifred,” I call out. “You need a jacket?”

“Nah,” she yells back from the treehouse.

I’m pretty sure kids are impervious to the cold, at least when they’re having fun. Still, I make a mental note to grab it if we’re out here long.

Tigger drops the ball at my feet, and I throw it again. We’re on the tenth or eleventh pitch when I hear the sound no parent or guardian wants to hear of the child in their care—a thump, followed by a scream. Not a happy scream or even a startled one. A scream of pain.

I’m racing toward the treehouse in a snap. “Winnie!” I call out. My stomach sinks when my eyes land on the little girl curled up on the ground beside the treehouse ladder.

“Sam,” she cries.

Shit.

I drop down beside her, taking stock quickly. Winnie is reaching toward her foot, but the moment she touches it, she cries out again and falls flat.

“Fudge,” she pseudo-swears.

“What hurts?” I ask, checking her eyes—pupils are even. I skim my hands through her hair. No blood.

“My ankle,” she says, openly crying now. “Sam, it hurts.”

Fuck. “Honey, how did you land?”

It’s obvious, even though I didn’t see it, that Winnie fell from either the top of the treehouse or from the ladder itself. I heard the thump. But if she landed on her back or—Heaven forbid—her head or neck, me moving her might make it worse.

But Winnie just closes her eyes and says, “I landed on my legs.”

Good enough for me. Swooping her up, I head swiftly for the house, whistling for Tigger to keep up, even though the dog is already at my heel.

“Sam,” Winnie says again, crying out. I do my best not to jostle her.

“I know, honey,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I got you, all right? You’re gonna be fine. Just hold tight.”

Winnie nods, her cheeks wet, but even as my mind races ten steps ahead and I rush the little girl to my truck, my heart falls somewhere in the vicinity of my boots. Harrison trusted me to watch his daughter, and only ten minutes in, I failed. I failed him, and I failed her.

And I don’t know what that means for us.

But I push it out of my head because right now, Winnie still needs me, and I refuse to let her down any more than I already have.

“You’re gonna be just fine,” I assure the both of us.

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