Page 33 of Small Town, Big Storm

That loosens the tightness in my throat, the panic, the worry.

(Although the anger at Storm leaving still clings to my bones.)

Regardless, I take a breath, a moment to recenter myself as Holly tows me along.

This may not all go to plan, but I love my daughter.

And ultimately, that’s the most important thing.

Those are the words I cling to as she pushes open the door and bright sunshine fills the space, my heart racing as I see Storm standing there.

God, why does he have to be so beautiful?

I crushed on him hard as a tween, was beside myself as we navigated our silly teenage relationship filled with ice cream dates and holding hands and sneaking kisses.And…I dreamed of that day at the beach a hundred, a thousand times before it actually happened.

But now?

All grown up, strength in every inch of his body, his beard thick, his dark hair shaggy, a slutty little tendril hanging down, draping itself over his forehead?

He’s dangerous as all hell.

Especially since my fingers itch to push that rogue strand back, to run through the rest of his hair.

To skate them down over his nape, over his body.To feel for myself all the ways he’s changed over the years, to soothe the ache inside me that’s never really gone away.

The door slams closed, cutting off the sunlight, and I shake myself, dropping back into reality just in time to get out of my daughter’s way as she hauls Storm down the hall and toward the door that leads upstairs to our apartment.

“You’ve got to look away,” she commands when they pause at the keypad.

“I do?”Storm asks softly as I follow them into the main room of Sully’s.

“Yup,” Holly says.“No one can know the code except for me and Mom and my babysitters.”

His gaze comes to mine, and I ignore that dastardly strand of hair, the strength of his body, the slight hint of approval in his dark gray eyes.“I won’t look,” he promises as I walk over.

For some reason, I can’t hold his stare, can’t let myself feel what’s in those gray eyes.

Instead, I watch Holly screw up her face as she concentrates on pushing the four buttons and the star key.

The lock clicks and she pulls the door open, rushes up the stairs.“Come on, Storm!Mom and I are making pasta from scratch!”

“Impressive,” he says as he follows her.

“Until you realize you’ve signed up for a dinner where the two people cooking don’t know the first thing about making pasta from scratch,” I say dryly.

His brows lift.“Really?”

“Holly gets ideas,” I try to explain.

“Ah,” he says like that makes sense to him when it can’t possibly.

“Ah?”I ask.

“I know all about women getting ideas,” he says sagely.

“Ah,” it’s my turn to say, gritting my teeth together so I don’t add anything else, anything likewhy the fuck do you know about women and their ideas when I’ve been here alone with our daughter and my pathetically dismal dating life?

First, that’s an insane thing to think.