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It’s like a bomb of color and cheer has gone off in the Bullshit Box. I blink and look down at Keena, who cocks her head.
I have no idea what Dakota needs, so I got her everything and then some.
I slide a thin book toward me. On the front, in bright yellow script, it reads MY BABY.
I close my eyes for a long second, then open it. My chest feels tight as I reach into my desk drawer and pull out the sonogram photo Dakota gave me. I flatten a hand over a corner, straightening it, then clumsily attach it to the first page, under the words MY FIRST PHOTO.
The tick of my jaw pulses in time with my heartbeats as I stare at the black-and-white blur. I don’t know why this is important, it just is.
Dakota needs this. Maybe not right now, but she will.
A flash of light has my gaze falling to Charlie’s desk and an overseas priority shipment. One I’ve been expecting.
“Christ,” I mutter, grabbing up the small, steel-looking package. “Idiots.”
I break the security seal with a pocket knife to get into the Fort Knox-like box. It had been a gamble reaching out to Ferraro, but it looks like the bastard came through.
Pain lances through me as I stare at the tracking device in my palm, the words SullyScan1700 curving around its side. I exhale and force myself through it.
The tracker/panic button is about the size of a dime, but inside, it’s loaded with military-grade software.
A rush of relief spears me. Dakota starts work next week, and I’m antsy as fuck knowing she’ll be off the ranch. I need to anticipate everything. Plan for the worst. I can’t cage Dakota. I won’t.
Especially not after what she’s been through.
So, this has to be the next best thing.
I hold the small tracker up to the light and chuckle.
She’s gonna fucking hate me.
Damn Davis Montgomery.
For the last week, baking supplies have appeared every morning. Like ghosts drifting out of the darkness to taunt me with the past.
Today, on the kitchen counter—a warm cup of coffee with sugar and cream. A small notepad. A beautiful ceramic pie plate. Bags of flour—almond and white. Jam and figs. Gold bricks of butter stacked in a pyramid shape.
Recipes weave through my mind. Beautiful, perfect pairings. Scones and jam. Cowboy cookies. Pain au chocolat.
Dares. Evil, delicious dares left behind by a cruel man named Davis Montgomery.
And it’s working.
The fucking nerve of that man. He gives me the cold shoulder all week, only to do the sweetest things that make me want to break down and bawl.
And what did I do? Two days into my house arrest and I kissed him. And he tore away from me like I was on fire.
Now? Now he’s avoiding me like a plague.
That Marine of iron willpower is a war manual that’s hard to read. I’m tired of trying to understand him.
One thing is clear: Davis and I can never go back to the way I want us to.
I’m pregnant. A mess. A liability. A man like Davis is honor bound, duty driven.
I am a job. A favor to my father. A fling from the past. And the past stays in the past.
I press a hand to my heart as I scan the baking supplies once more. My fingers dance over the small notepad, reminiscent of the ones I used to write my recipes. I open the cheery yellow cover and stare at the blank page. A clean slate.
