Page 72 of Melting for the Firefighter
“Cora.”
Lance’s voice draws me back.
Jordan lowers our daughter from his shoulders, and Lance takes her before crossing the street. She has his dark hair, my blue eyes, and a fierce commitment to pulling his beard whenever he forgets to guard it.
“Your child stole Jordan’s radio,” he says.
“Our child.”
“She gets her criminal tendencies from you.”
“What have I ever stolen?”
His gaze holds mine.
“My heart.”
The answer comes in the same serious tone he uses to discuss fire safety.
It still makes my stomach flutter.
“You gave that to me.”
“Didn’t have a choice.”
“You always have choices.”
Something warm passes between us.
He knows what I mean.
Lance shifts our daughter higher against his chest before she can grab a fistful of daisies.
“Your mother would be proud of you,” I say.
His gaze moves to our daughter.
She has managed to get two fingers tangled in his beard.
“I hope so.”
“I know she would.”
He bends and kisses the baby’s round cheek.
She squeals, kicks both legs, and says something that sounds suspiciously like “Da,” though she uses the same sound for dogs and dolls.
Lance smiles anyway.
The softness that enters his face still feels like something precious I am lucky enough to see.
My phone buzzes beneath the counter.
Mom.
I look at the screen and let the call go unanswered.
The guilt still visits sometimes.
