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Ella gasps, her hips convulsing. I grind against her, my eyes steady on her face. I need her to say that she isn’t going to leave. She needs me as much as I need her.
“I—”
Whatever she’s about to say is interrupted by the sound of the door opening behind us.
“What are you guys doing out here?” a little voice asks.
Ella practically leaps out of my arms and puts space between our bodies.
I look back over my shoulder without fully turning around while I adjust myself and give Ella a few extra seconds to straighten her clothes.
“Hey, sunshine.” Pretty sure I sound guilty as hell. “You’re up early. How did you sleep?”
Isla rubs her eyes, giving me and Ella a suspicious look. My daughter is too smart for her own good sometimes. “Fine, I guess. Can I have some cereal?”
Ella pushes past me and sweeps Isla up into her arms before I can answer. “Of course you can. I’ll make some for both of us.”
“Okay,” she nods, smiling. Thank god kids have a special knack for moving on without asking too many questions whenever there’s food involved. “Thanks, Ella.”
“Yeah,” I sigh, my hands already missing the feel of Ella’s body. “Thanks, Ella. We’ll talk more later.”
She gives me a hard look over the top of Isla’s head.
“We will.” Before she turns to go back inside, she mouths, “We need to talk about Kinsley, too.”
I blink, hoping I’ve misread her lips. Pretty sure I didn’t, though.
My stomach sinks as Ella carries my daughter inside. Just when I think we’re getting back to a good place, now she wants to talk about my ex?
Fuck my life.
CHAPTERFIVE
ELLA
Isla has been attached to my hip all day, making it almost impossible to find time to talk about Kinsley with Keir. It doesn’t help that he’s been avoiding me like the plague ever since I mentioned her name.
The more time I spend lost in my thoughts about Keir and his family, the more I start to miss mine. Journaling isn’t even helping anymore. I write and write to get my feelings down on paper and out of my head, but I’m still stopping every five minutes to look at the tattered, faded picture of my family that I’ve tucked away in the back of my diary.
“Don’t you love this cartoon, Ella?” Isla glances over from her spot next to me on the couch, giving the journal in my hands a pointed look. “You’ve been watching, right?”
Yep, I’ve been caught red-handed.
“Of course,” I use the photo to mark my place, then close my diary and offer my best smile. “I used to watch this show when I was a kid.”
A tiny line appears in her forehead as she looks up at me. “They had cartoons when you were a kid?”
I snort out a laugh even though I should probably be slightly offended. “Try not to look so shocked. I’m notthatold.”
“Hm.” She looks like she might have more to say, but turns back to her show instead.
Kids.
At least I never have to wonder what she’s thinking, unlike her father. And at least she’s kind and adorable and super sweet almost all the time… unlike her father.
I instantly feel a pang of guilt at that thought. Maybe he isn’t that bad. But it’s hard not to be irritated with him when I feel like he still hasn’t learned from the craziness in Italy.
Even after Isla and I almost died. Even after my shoulder—which is currently sporting one of the ugliest bruises I’ve ever seen—got dislocated and had to be popped back into place by a doctor whose bedside manner was seriously lacking.
