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“Oooh. Mommy’s got to put money in the swear jar.”
I have a feeling a swear jar is the least of my worries now that Callahan Kane stormed back into my life with a deadly smile and a big problem.
Iblink up at the ceiling and wait for the blurry chandelier to come into focus. It takes a minute for my vision to clear, although my brain remains a fuzzy mess.
Why am I on the floor?
“Oh, thank God you’re awake. Are you okay?” Lana leans forward. Her dark waves brush against my face, tickling my skin. She smells like snickerdoodle cookies, reminding me of late nights staying up past curfew together, eating raw cookie dough while hanging out on the dock. My attempt to hold back from taking another deep breath fails, and I’m hit with a second inhale of her cinnamon scent.
I can’t remember the last time I dreamed of Lana. Months?Years?This one is more vivid than my others, nailing the smallest details like the tiny birthmark on her neck in the shape of a heart and the scar above her cupid’s bow.
I reach out to brush the faint white mark above her lips, making the tips of my fingers tingle. The world ceases to exist around me as her gaze crashes into mine.
God. Those eyes.
Her brown eyes remind me of the soil right after it rains—with them being so dark, they look black in certain kinds of light. It’s an underrated color that rivals all others, although Lana always used to disagree.
My thumb accidentally grazes her bottom lip, drawing a sharp breath from her.
“What are you doing?” She pulls away.
I wince at the sharp pain drilling a hole through the back of my skull.
You’re not dreaming, dumbass.
“Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to make it hurt worse.” She lifts my head off her lap. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Three,” I grunt.
“What day is it?”
“May third.”
“Where are we right now?” Her nails graze my scalp, sending sparks shooting down my spine.
“Hell,” I hiss.
“Did that hurt?” She repeats the same move. My skin burns from her touch, and heat spreads throughout my veins like wildfire.
“Stop. I’m fine.” I pull away and slide across the floor until my back hits the wall opposite her. Despite the distance I gain, the spicy cinnamon smell of her bodywash sticks to my clothes. It’s the same addictive one she has been using for years.
I take another deep inhale because clearly I must enjoy torturing myself.
God. You’re pathetic.I smack my head against the wall, and it throbs with retaliation.
“Here, mister. For your boo-boo.”
Oh, shit.
Alana has a daughter. A five-year-old daughter with dirty blond hair and big blue eyes eerily like mine. With me sitting down, we’re nearly the same height, although she has a couple of extra inches on me from this angle.
Alana’s child—possiblymychild—stares down at me with round eyes and pajamas that are buttoned incorrectly. Her hair color borders on light brown, with most of the wavy strands falling out of her poorly constructed ponytail.
Is she mine?
God, I hope not.
The thought is shitty but true. I’m not ready to be a father yet. Hell, I’m not sure if I’ll ever be ready. Until this point, I was satisfied with becoming the cool uncle who never really got his life together in time to have any kids. How could I when I’m only able to do the bare minimum for myself?
