Morrison (Caldwell Brothers #2)

“When you said those words, I felt the same, like I am part of you, of this. It scared the hell out of me, Morrison. I didn’t know if I could give it to you and not take away from Marisa. The past few months proved otherwise. The way you love me, the way you love her, and the way you love your family has all proved it’s okay to say those words out loud. It didn’t take away from her. If anything, it’s added to the love I feel for her—and for you.” Tears flow down her face. “I want to be good. I want to be good enough for you. I will never be able to say it to you enough. I love you. I love you. I love you. I—”

“We are one, little momma.” I pull her pants and underwear down, and she kicks them off. Then I take her mouth before taking her against the wall, hard. “One.”

“One,” she moans.



ONE MONTH LATER

I walk into the bank with two checks—one from the insurance company for the Porsche and one for the sale of the Atlantic City pad. I see Townsman exit his office, and he reaches out his hand to shake mine.

“Glad you called. Come on in.” I follow him into his office. “Have a seat.”

“I won’t waste your time. I’m here to make an offer.” I put the check for the pad on his desk. “I had a friend walk around the outside, and it needs some work to make it code. I have a mission statement, a building plan, and files to be tax-exempt. I have applied for the business license, reached out to local shelters, and visited them. I have a board of directors and volunteers who are ready to pitch in.”

“This is more than the asking price,” he says, looking at the check.

“That’s enough to fix the roof and the elevator, paint, and do some flooring and kitchen updates that will be needed.”

“But—”

“The bank is paying taxes on the place. Five grand a year isn’t shit, but to heat that place this winter is gonna take a toll. I am offering eighty grand and a spot on the board if you want it.”

“That’s a hundred and twenty thousand less—”

I stand. “That’s my offer. Let me know if you accept.”

“We can maybe offer a loan.”

“No loan. Let me know.”

I walk up to the bank teller and deposit the check for the pad and the Porsche. Then I pull out twenty grand. It doesn’t seem like enough, but she’ll freak the fuck out. She loves me, though. She fucking loves me and finally said so exactly one month ago today, and that changed everything.



It’s Wednesday night, and I am snuggled into Marisa’s bed, which now has a canopy.

“Mommy is gonna be so mad.” She tries to keep a straight face but fails and falls into yet another giggling fit, and I can’t help laughing with her. When she has relaxed, she is looking at the bed in awe. She rolls over on her side. “You’re nice.”

“Well, I’m glad you think so, little chick.”

“I like you.” She rolls onto her back, and her smile gets even bigger. “I like you a lot.”

“I like you a lot, too.”

She yawns, reminding me it’s forty minutes past her bedtime. It took a little more time to get this bed together than I expected. The directions should have come with a warning that, if children are helping, important hardware may come up missing. In my case, it was a washer, which became a ring around a little chick’s thumb.

“You know”—she yawns again—“I said I didn’t need stories tonight, but the best daddy eva would still read me books.”

“Is that so?”

“Uh-huh,” she says matter-of-factly, nodding.

She falls asleep at the end of the second book, face toward the pink canopy. I still read four, though. Call me competitive, call me dumb, call me someone who keeps a promise, call me Caldwell.

I laugh at my thoughts.

“Call me Caldwell” used to be a way to give a chick a name without giving an actual name, a noncommittal response to make a moment seem more than just a fuck. It was a name moaned from the mouth of a stranger during a one-night stand. Shit, sometimes when I said “Call me Caldwell,” it was a blow-off.

That name means much more to me than it did only a few months ago. That name is Momma’s legacy, that name is family, and that name is mine.

I walk out of Marisa’s bedroom and close the door behind me. I have a task to complete, and I have only two hours to do it.

I grab my phone and send a text to Jagger to let him know I’m ready. Then I open the door as Jagger and Hendrix carry in one of the three boxes.

“We’ve been waiting an hour to hear from you. You better hope this goes smoothly or—”

“It’ll be fine. Just try not to use washers as rings and then let me look around for thirty minutes before you tell me you have it.”

“Ris Priss?”

“The kid loves dress-up.” I smile.

“You sure this is a good idea?” Hendrix asks as I push the new queen-sized air mattress into the corner.

“I’m sure popping the old one tipped her a little. Didn’t get my way, though. She just bought a new one, stubborn little momma. So she left me with no choice. She’ll be pissed, but she’ll get over it. I have my balls back.”

They laugh, and then we get to work.

Once we’re done, I stand back and admire the four-poster bed. It’s not a king; I did listen to her about that. And I am damn sure gonna mention that when she is stewing. Of course, the other reason I decided the queen is good is I didn’t want distance to be an option.

She walks in the door and glances around, looking beautiful in the candlelight.

I walk to her, take her purse off her arm, and set it on the table.

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