Page 40 of Small Town, Big Storm

She grins then runs off to pick a game.

Which will probably be UNO and I’ll soon enough be having my ass handed to me by a six-year-old.

I can’t even take credit for her card sharp skills.

That’s all Uncle Sully.

I’ve never had the patience.

But even as a toddler, Holly had the head for it.

“Thanks,” Storm murmurs and I glance up, see he’s watching me.

“For what?”

“For letting me have tonight.”

That familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach comes back with a vengeance.It’s easy to pretend that everything’s fine when he and Holly are messing around in the kitchen and we’re all sitting around the table, especially with Holly filling the space between us.

I can almost pretend Storm is just another visitor joining us for dinner—something that’s regular enough.

But with him looking at me like that…

Alarm bells are chiming.

I clear my throat.“Well, thankyoufor cooking,” I tell him.“You really saved the day from my poor kitchen skills.”

“It was nothing.”A beat.“Plus, you can’t be that bad.Clearly, you two aren’t starving.”

“Ask Holly that on meatloaf night,” I quip.

He laughs and I freeze, the sound so wonderful, so beautiful I want to box it up and hold it close.

Then I remember what I’m doing.

What I’m risking.

For a man who left, who’ll leave again.

“Anyway,” I say curtly, and I know he clocks the abrupt shift in my tone—how couldn’t he?—but I’m still talking.“You made a much more palatable meal than I could.So, thanks.”

His gaze comes to mine, holding, that storm in his eyes surging forward again.But all he says is, “You’re welcome,” then he’s on his feet, grabbing the plates and heading for the sink.The water turns on.

I shove the last of the garlic bread into my mouth and stand, hurrying over.“You cooked,” I say, chewing and swallowing in a hurry, “I’ll do the dishes.”

“I’ve got them.”

“Storm,” I begin, setting my hand on his arm.“Let?—”

He whips toward me and I skitter back at the icy expression on his face, my hand dropping to my side as he says, “I talked to my agent.”

“They don’t remember,” I whisper, something knotting in my stomach.

Because if he throws the plate he’s clutching in his hands like he threw the drink last night…he can’t stay.Biology or not, I won’t let that type of violence be around my daughter.

He studies my face.

Then sighs and picks up the sponge, starts scrubbing at the dish, and I don’t miss that he’s doing it carefully, like he’s trying to contain the anger raging through him.“No, they don’t remember you reaching out.”A beat.“Not specifically.”