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“You have to eat, baby,” he said urged gently. “It’s not just you who needs it.”
He was right, and after dinner, he led me into the bedroom and tenderly undressed me, hands brushing over my sensitive skin as he pulled one of his old sweatshirts over me. My favorite one, that hung to my thighs and smelled like his laundry detergent. We crawled into bed and he held me tight as I cried against his chest, murmuring soft things while he dropped kisses against my hair. His big hands found my lower belly, stroking gently as he whispered how much he loved me.
How much he loved the baby.
What a good mother he knew I would be.
That he hoped the baby had my smile.
The words were like balm against the wound that my father slashed open, and under Denton’s loving attention, the roiling pain inside me calmed enough for me to fall asleep in his arms.
Chapter Eighteen
Denton
If my arms hadn’t been full of his weeping daughter, I would have chased Clive Davenport down and punched him square in the jaw, audience or not. A misdemeanor assault charge would have been worth it for the pleasure of kicking his ass after the way he’d treated Marcie.
I looked down at her as she slumbered in my arms, her eyes still swollen from the hours of crying. I seethed with anger the whole time, but kept it to myself as I made her dinner and soothed her to sleep.
Now, though.
Nobody—not even her beloved father—was going to treat the woman I loved that way. The mother of my child.
With a soft sigh, she rolled away from me and nestled into her pillow. I slid off the bed and pulled the blanket up over her slim shoulder, then fished a notepad out of my nightstand to scribble a quick note to leave on my pillow, in case she woke up and wondered where I was.
My condo wasn’t far from the Pacific Heights Hotel, and before long, I strode into the lobby and up to the desk.
“Can you give me Clive Davenport’s room number?” I asked the front desk clerk.
She raised an eyebrow at my authoritative tone. “I can call his room and ask if he’ll see you.”
I sighed. “That’s fine.”
She picked up the phone and dialed a few digits.
“Mr. Davenport, this is the front desk. Are you expecting a guest?”
She set the phone down and shrugged. “He said it’s fine. Room 1640.”
A few minutes later, I arrived on the sixteenth floor and pounded on Clive’s door. He swung it open a second later, his face falling as he realized it was me standing on the other side.
“Denton,” he grunted.
I raised an eyebrow. “Clearly you were expecting someone else. Can I come in?”
He sighed and didn’t deny my comment, which made me wonder who’d he’d been anticipating. Taking a step back, he waved me inside.
Clive looked rumpled and tired, I noticed, his hair mussed as though he ran his fingers through it repeatedly.
“Sit,” he said crisply, gesturing at living room set.
I settled into an uncomfortable chair—too small for my height—and stared at him as he lowered himself in the chair across from me.
“You treated your daughter like shit today,” I growled before he had a chance to speak. “She cried for hours after.”
Clive frowned and looked down at his bare feet. “Where is she now?”
“At home.” I leaned back in my chair and glared at him. “Ourhome. Sleeping, and she doesn’t know I’m here right now. She probably wouldn’t have wanted me to come, but I’m too pissed off to just let this slide any longer.”
