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OLIVIA
The room smells like baby powder and lavender-scented laundry sheets. I lie on the bed in an oversized pink sleep shirt.
The door creaks as it opens, and the room is illuminated by a soft orange glow from the hallway. The air is still and quiet; all I can hear is Brady's breathing next to me. I glance at Brady's face. He doesn't stir as Liam enters the room.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
Liam closes the door and walks over. “Taking a cue from my son.”
I get a sweet ache at the way he says it.
A soft gasp escapes my lips as he picks Brady up and carries him over to the crib. Brady stirs and whimpers at the disturbance, making me sit up with a frown.
“You're waking him up,” I hiss in a whisper.
“He’s fine.” Liam walks away from the crib without a second glance and unbuttons his shirt.
“What are you doing?” I whisper again, my heart thudding in my chest like a caged bird desperately trying to escape its confines.
“The couch is too small to sleep on.”
He removes his shirt, and my mouth goes dry. His muscles are even bigger than I remember. There’s a red linear scar on his side, which I realize is from where he got shot. That causes a sinking feeling in my stomach. Lies. A convicted killer. A dead fiancee. It’s so sordid. My fingers go to my cheekbone where I have a tiny white dot of a scar from where her ring cut me.
Sitting on the side of the bed, he removes his shoes and socks.
“Is this a good idea?” I ask softly.
After he removes his belt, he rolls it into a coil and sets it on the dresser. “Yeah, it’s fine.” His tone is dismissive, which is both reassuring and painful. He takes off his trousers, so he’s left in black boxer-briefs. Is this a game to him?
He sets his phone on the window ledge next to the bed and climbs in. Within moments, his eyes are closed and his breathing is even.
I have a much tougher time falling asleep.
* * *
LIAM
As my minddrags me toward consciousness, I become aware of a rhythmic squeaking near my right ear. After opening my eyes, I squint at the light filtering through an unfamiliar sheer curtain.
What the hell?
Oh, right. Maine.
I turn my head, and bright blue eyes study my face as my son chews on the nipple of his bottle.
“Morning,” I say. “Breakfast in bed for the likes of you, aye?”
A chubby little hand smacks my forehead and moves in a haphazard circle.
“What have you got there, lad? Milk?”
His fingers poke my eyelid, and I move my head out of his short arm span.
“What kind of milk is that?”
“It’s formula.” Olivia’s low voice comes from the other side of the baby.
“Hmm.”
