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“Dada.” Reid squealed, pointing in the direction of my painting.
“No, it’s not…” I glanced at the drawing again.
He’s right.
It was a crude drawing based on my limited artistic skill, but there was no mistaking the resemblance.
“Dada!” Reid threw his brush down and started running.
“Hey! Where are you going?”
Tiny feet kicking up sand, Reid raced down the shore. Panicked, I followed, calling his name. Reid didn’t run for long. He threw himself against the legs of a man standing in the distance.
My breath hitched when I recognized the stranger’s broad shoulders and intense gaze.
Deacon.
He was home.
I stayed back as he swung Reid into his arms and peppered his face with kisses. Envy stirred in my chest, stealing my breath.
I never thought I’d be jealous of a two-year-old.
When he was finished greeting his son, Deacon moved toward me. I remained in place, my bones quaking. My tongue darted out to wet my lips.
I struggled to pull up my defenses.
The sea crashed against the sand, filling the air with music. Heavy winds tore through the leaves of coconut trees. Nature warned that the more powerful forces always did the most damage.
“Angel,” Deacon said.
I trembled beneath that steady gaze. “H-hey. You’re back.”
“Yes.”
“How was your trip?” Who’s Rhia?
“Good.” He set Reid down. “Can I join you?”
I squirmed. “Wouldn’t you rather head inside? I mean, you must be tired.”
“I’m not too tired for this.” He set Reid down. Immediately, the little boy latched onto his father’s hand and dragged him to the easels.
My eyes widened when I realized that Deacon would see my drawing of him. I lunged forward and ripped the page from the sketchpad.
He looked at me as if I’d sprouted two horns from the top of my head.
“Dada, paint.” Reid tugged him and drew his attention away.
I blew out a breath and stowed the crumpled painting in the bag that had stored the paint and sketchpads.
“You.” Reid thrust the paintbrush into Deacon’s hand.
Deacon obediently dipped the brush into paint and slid it over the paper. I watched him, spell-bound. Bluntly cut fingernails. Strong hands. Arms with a smattering of dark hair.
“My turn.” Reid snatched the paintbrush back.
“Reid, you shouldn’t grab things,” I said automatically.
