Page 170 of Stay Wild Darlin’

“This might’ve been better than a real shower.”

“Yeah?” I smiled into her hair.

She looked up at me. “But I swear to God, if we ever do this in winter, you’re dead.”

“Let’s go in,” I said, pulling her tighter against my chest. “We’ll warm up, climb under the blanket, and I’ll kiss every inch of you until you forget how cold the hose was.”

We padded back into the house, her wet hair clinging to her neck and her eyes soft with fatigue. I grabbed another blanket from her office, and we settled in front of the fire.

She curled into me without hesitation because her body already knew the shape of mine. I kissed her damp forehead, her shoulder, the top of her spine, and breathed her in.

I used to be that kid, the one whose parents always saw as a disappointment. I learned how to disappear before I could talk. Learned to punch back before I ever learned to ask for help.

With Brooke, I thought I’d found something real. I didn’t know better then.

I mistook her fire for warmth. She loved in a way that left bruises—emotional ones, sure, but bruises all the same. Love with her was a game, a contest to see who could hurt the other worse before crawling into bed. It was addiction. Possession. And every time we fought, she’d cry and say, “This is just how we are.”

My dumb ass believed her.

Because no one had ever shown me differently.

My family didn’t talk about love. We sure as hell didn’t show it.

I never learned that love could be safe.

Until her.

She came into my life when I was barely holding it together—this barefoot, headstrong girl with a soft laugh and steady hands, showing up for a job. Just the nanny.

I was her boss and kept my distance, told myself it was temporary. She was here to help with my daughter. That was it.

Somehow, she started helping me too.

She didn’t flinch at my mood swings, didn’t pry into my past or tiptoe around my silence. She saw every cracked, rusted, splintered part of me and never once reached for glue. She held my hand while I figured out how to live with it all. She didn’t try to fix me. She gave me room to heal.

This wasn’t the kind of love I used to chase. It wasn’t fire or fury or chaos. It was peace.

The kind of peace that lets your body exhale. That tells your soul it can rest. That says you’re safe here. You’re home.

I looked down at her, curled against my chest in the half-light of the living room. Her skin was still dewy from the hose, her hair tangled, her breathing slow and even. I brushed a strand from her face, and her lashes fluttered, her lips parting with the softest sound.

This was the kind of love that built a home because she didn’t walk into my house, she filled it. She stitched me back together one kiss, one touch, one stubborn, beautiful day at a time.

She was my calm after the storm I was raised in.

This wasn’t where I thought I’d end up. It was better. It was everything.

58

Dalton

“Congratulations, you two,” Papa Banks said as he stepped into our new place while holding a pie. He looked around, beaming.

I clapped Papa Banks on the back, stepping aside to let him in.

It had taken us exactly three months, the entire summer, to get the house the way we wanted. Every wall had been painted. The kitchen was redone. There were so many plants that it looked like we were halfway to opening a greenhouse. The yard still needed some love, but that was a fall project. One step at a time.

“Where are your girls?”