Page 66 of His Daughter

I grabbed a clove and a knife. He watched. I minced it carefully. I swept them into the pan. Olive oil. Low heat. I stood over the stove and watched. Thirty seconds. Forty-five. The garlic turned golden and fragrant, and I pulled the pan off the heat.

"There." I turned to him. "Not burned."

He slow-clapped. I threw a pinch of flour at him. It hit his shirt, leaving a white mark on the charcoal fabric.

He looked down at his shirt, then at me.

"You didn't."

"I did."

He reached into the flour bowl. I stepped back. "Declan, don't you — "

His finger swept across my cheekbone, leaving a stripe of white. I gasped. I reached up to wipe the flour from my cheek. He caught my hand, pulled me toward him, and kissed me right there in the small kitchen.

After the impromptu cooking lesson ended and the kitchen had been set back in order — flour brushed away, the quiet returning — we slipped out into the night.

The car was warm. The bag of books sat in my lap, the spines pressing against my thighs through the paper. The city moved past the windows — darker now, quieter, the late-night version that ran on streetlights, taxi headlights, and the glow from apartment windows.

My hand was on his thigh. I'd put it there without thinking. His eyes stayed on the road. But his right hand dropped from the wheel and covered mine, and his thumb moved once across my knuckle.

We pulled up to the building. The doorman held the glass. Dominique was in the hallway. She had her jacket on, her bag over her shoulder.

"Quiet night," she said. "One feeding at ten. She went down easily. No fever."

"Thank you, Dominique," Declan said.

"Thank you," I said.

She nodded and stepped into the elevator. The doors closed.

The penthouse was quiet. The lights were low. Declan turned to me in the hallway. His hand found my waist. He pulled me toward him, and I went. His mouth found mine, and the kiss was slow and deep and tasted like red wine and flour.

His hands moved down my hips. I pressed against him. He pulled back, his forehead against mine.

"I'm going to take a quick shower." His thumb traced my hip bone through the fabric of my dress. "But we're finishing this."

He kissed my forehead, turned, and walked down the hall. I heard the bedroom door, then the water running.

I went to the nursery.

Lena was asleep. I reached in and picked her up. She stirred, and then she settled. Her fist found my collar. Her cheek rested against my collarbone.

I stood in the nursery and held her. I was happy. Genuinely, terrifyingly happy. I knew what it cost. I'd paid it before. But standing here, holding this baby with the sound of his shower running down the hall, I let myself have it. Just for tonight. I let myself believe this was real.

I kissed Lena's forehead. "I love you," I whispered. "Whatever happens, I love you."

The intercom buzzed.

I turned my head. The small screen on the wall by the front door glowed. The concierge's voice, tinny through the speaker, "A woman to see Mr. Hale."

Dominique? She probably forgot something.

I shifted Lena to one arm, walked to the intercom, and pressed the button. "Send her up."

I walked to the front door and waited.

The elevator dinged. Footsteps in the hallway. I opened the door.