Page 21 of Promise

Dart lowers his hands, rubbing them against his thighs while his brows pinch. “Why isn’t her dad here, helping you?”

“I don’t know her father.” The truth is the truth, but he isn’t privy to it yet.

Dart’s mouth falls open, and he takes a step back. Air escapes his body like he’s been punched in the gut. Then, he clamps his lips and narrows his eyes. “What do you mean you don’t know her father?”

“I mean . . . I don’t know who her father is.”

His hands curl into fists at his side. “Jesus fuck.” He swipes a hand through his hair and spins away from me, exhaling deeply again. He sets both hands on the nape of his neck and tips his head back, blowing out another breath. Then he pivots, causing me to flinch at how quickly we face one another again.

“Just rip the bandage off, Trinity. How many guys have you slept with?” The depth of pain mingled with his question sounds as if I’ve shaved off a pound of his flesh.

My mouth gapes, lower lip hung in disbelief. He has no right to ask. No right to be hurt.

“What the hell? It’s none of your business who I’ve slept with or how many,” I argue, not knowing why I’m even suggesting there has been anyone else in three years. Three long, drought-filled years of no physical contact with another man. No emotional connection either, even with a handful of worthless dates and one failed kiss.

He’s probably had tons of women in his absence, and the backs of my eyes burn with a thought I’ve tried so hard not to consider. The pit lizards who’d love a swipe at someone as delectable as him. The casual female acquaintances within the crew. The worst was the idea of someone random and meaningless.

My stomach twisted in knots.

It had taken a long time to rid my imagination of him with someone else, even when his original messages tried to assure me there was no one.

Only me. In his heart. In his thoughts.

That time turned to years of vacancy, and Dart was a sexual man. Touch was his love language. He craved it, he gave it. Once upon a time, he acted as if he needed it for confirmation that I was present. I was physically there with him, beside him.

Until . . . he left.

An action that so stunned me, based on his past and his fears.

As he glares at me, something etched in the lines around his eyes emphasizes them. Makes the burnt-orange and gold streaks flare like a flame.

Was he jealous?

“Her father should be here,” he fumes, angered on her behalf. As if he has a right to care about Mirabelle. Care about me.

My tongue wants to lash at him. My teeth hold back an accusation: Her father left me. But Dart has no claim to Mirabelle.

I push a different topic. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought you could use some lunch.” He glances at the bags on the low table, running his hands nervously over his thighs again before slipping them into his pockets.

“I mean in Rogue River.” Exasperation cannot be contained. “In this house. How did you even get in here in the first place?” Let alone the second time.

“The code is our wedding anniversary.” The corner of his mouth tweaks upward. A sheepish smile on the way to smugness.

“In reverse,” I snip, shocked he remembers the date.

Then again, flowers arrive each year as a painful reminder of what had been lost. The bouquet was the same one I’d carried on our wedding day. The bundle of daisies with a yellow ribbon around the stems should have meant love and patience. The arrangement was not the average collection found in a floral shop. They often looked hand-picked, which would be impossible.

Instead of tossing the gift in the garbage each year, I’d take the flowers to a new mom who was separated from her child in the NICU. Brightening her day when mine had been soured.

Dart didn’t need to be so cruel.

“I’ll change the code,” I mutter, considering how clever he is.

He chuckles, like I’m joking, and reaches for the two sacks. “Let me make you lunch.”

“You haven’t answered the rest of my questions. Rogue River?” I quip. “My house?”