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Henley’s smile competes with the moon when Lucy mumbles, “I love you, Daddy,” into my chest as I pull her in close, but it has nothing on how bright her face becomes when she adds, “I love you too, Henley.” Since she’s tired, her “love” sounds more like “wuv.” “I knew you’d come.” She cracks open her groggy eyes before whispering, “I just had to be patient.”
With my life only weeks away from being hectic again, I should feel grateful when she holds out her arms for Henley to take her, but all I want to do is whine like a bitch.
Lucy loved Ms. Mitchell, but she never once picked her over me.
“It’s okay. I’ve got her,” Henley assures me as my hands shoot to catch Lucy when Henley groans like she’s heavy. “Are you okay with the bags?”
When I jerk up my chin, Henley carries Lucy into the house with only the faintest whimper escaping her mouth.
By the time I finish unpacking the truck and have put away the cooler and inflatables for the next Ashburn family get-together, Henley has Lucy fed, bathed, and tucked into bed.
I’m not as butthurt as I was when I walk into Lucy’s room and spot her blissfully happy face. She had the time of her life today, and although at one stage I thought going it alone would be best for everyone involved, the grin she can’t hide even while sleeping proves I went about things the wrong way.
Stella and Herbert’s wealth wasn’t responsible for the target on Caroline’s back or Chelsea’s antics after her death that saw them almost lose their granddaughter as well.
The blame belongs on solely my shoulders, and the only way it won’t be forced onto someone else’s is by maintaining the solidarity I’ve enforced in my personal life over the past five years.
So, with my mind made up, I tuck in my daughter like she isn’t already wrapped in blankets, then head for my bedroom like I’m clueless only a wall separates me from my twenty-two-year-old nanny showering naked in the room next door.
11
HENLEY
With Lucy bathed, fed, and tucked in bed, I finally had five minutes to work on an issue I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t taken relationship advice from a woman with gorgeous tanned skin. Chelsea was adamant my placement in Brodie’s home would be short-lived if I didn’t find a way for him to admit he isn’t as ancient as the people who usually care for Lucy, but I didn’t place my pasty-white skin into the equation.
I’m from the South, but my skin is alabaster white. It doesn’t take kindly to the sun in general, but when you limit your clothing to force a response, you pay for the consequences of your decision fast.
Even after a shower cold enough to make my teeth chatter, my ass still feels like it is on fire.
“Sweet baby Jesus, this isn’t good,” I murmur to my reflection when I peel off my towel to inspect the damage.
I could feel the sting of my burn in the shower, but it’s worse than predicted. My bikini straps are the only part of my back not as red as a Coke can, and most of my skin looks well past cooked.
“Is that a blister?”
My eyes widen as I struggle to take in the glossy bubble-like curve in the middle of my spine. It is just above the two dimples in my lower back—right at a region Brodie burned a hole in all day.
No wonder it is festering.
I freeze like a statue when “Is everything okay?” barrels through the unlocked bathroom door.
Although I wore a bikini to gain this man’s attention, I don’t want him to see me like this. I look as foolish as I feel.
“Yeah. I just…” I get desperate when a big stretch still doesn’t offer me any relief. “I’m burned… badly. My back is blistering.”
“Blistering?” Brodie double-checks, assuming he heard me wrong.
He didn’t. “Yeah. I’m fairly sure it’s a blister, although it’s hard to tell since I can’t twist my neck enough to see it.”
After what feels like two lifetimes, he finally asks, “Are you covered?”
I curl the damp towel back around me, hissing when it hugs my skin, before replying, “Yep… for the most part.”
Brodie doesn’t enter the bathroom at the speed of a rocket like he did two nights ago. His pace is as slow as the drop of his eyes when they leave my blemished face. Thankfully, embarrassment is the cause of my colored cheeks. I was smart enough to put sunscreen on my face. My wish to make Brodie squirm as I had the previous seventy-six hours made me forget the rest of my body.
The sting of rejection burns worse than the sun when it dawns on me that Brodie isn’t checking me out. He’s hunting for the offending blister. “Where do you think the blister is?”
