No, I don’t see the connection at all.
She shrugs. “You’d get it if you drank more,” she declares with a grin. “But I’m glad you don’t. That little girl needs you.”
This is the moment that I decide I like Jordan Bailey. Very much. Even if she is damaged and headed down a dangerous path with her drinking. Sometimes I think broken people gravitate toward one another, like our shattered pieces connect on a level that unscarred people never know.
I glance toward the bathroom, thinking of the man inside, holding my daughter so rapt. Maybe that’s why I’m so irrefutably drawn to him. He may be the most broken one of all.
TWELVE
Cole
SHE’S GETTING UNDER my skin. I’ve thought about Eden from the second I left her with a fixed faucet and running water. I’ve thought about her being there all by herself, about the possibility that Jason might come over to check on her, especially after Jordan tells him what happened. And that eats at me. I hate to admit how much it bothers me to think of him being in her house, of him being close to her. Of any man, really.
Even though I don’t want the strings, even though I don’t want the feelings, in some way I feel like Eden is already mine. Or at least that she should be. And what’s mine, no man touches. Or at least, if he tries, he doesn’t get to talk about it for a few days while he heals.
It makes no sense, of course. I have no claim on her. No right to care even. But I do. God in heaven, how I do!
That’s why, although I shouldn’t–shouldn’t care, shouldn’t get involved, shouldn’t make things worse–I email my agent and ask him to send me a no-contract phone as soon as possible. As inadvisable as it is, I want her to have a way to reach me. And only me.
THIRTEEN
Eden
IT’S ONLY BEEN two days since I’ve seen Cole, yet it feels like forever. I’m like a junkie, jonesing for her next fix. What is wrong with me? I never get like this. Over anybody, much less a man! I’ve had too many bad experiences. I have too much baggage. I don’t even want to want someone this way.
And yet here I am. Wanting. And loving it in a perverse way. The anticipation, the sensations, the exhilaration–they’re as addictive as Cole himself is turning out to be. My worry, however, is that they’re as destructive as an addiction.
I can’t let it get to that point. I have to protect Emmy, first and foremost. And even though I feel like Cole could be good and…safe somehow, if the tide shifts, I have to be ready and willing to bail. Emmy comes first. Always. She has to.
The knock on the door pulls me from my troublesome thoughts. I glance at Emmy on the floor. She’s in the beginning stages of another drawing. She probably doesn’t even know I’m in the room. She loses herself when she has a crayon in her hand. I’m glad she has that respite from the world around her and the ugliness it can sometimes show.
I get up and walk to the door. As I near it, I don’t even have to stretch up on my toes to peek through the glass at the top. My heart is already pattering at the dirty blond crown I can plainly see. I know who’s outside. Every nerve in my body is screaming his name.
I slip off the chain and unlock the deadbolt, swinging the door open to Cole. His longish hair is framing his face and, despite the cold, he’s wearing only a sweatshirt and jeans. But I forget all about that when I look up. The moment I meet his intense cerulean eyes, I’m stuck. Trapped. Drowning in a sea of blue.
Neither of us says anything. The thump of my daughter running up to me and slamming to a stop against my thigh jars me back to reality. I glance down.
Her thumb is in her mouth, but she’s already smiling around it. Cautiously, she eases just far enough away from me to still be able to hold on, but also be able to reach Cole’s hand. She curls her fingers around his and tugs him toward us.
His eyes flicker back up to mine as he steps forward. Still caught in that blue gaze of his, I don’t retreat. We just stand in the doorway, almost chest to chest, his handsome face staring down into mine. Up close, I can count every long eyelash that frames his bright eyes, number every light brown whisker that dots his lean cheeks. He’s the perfect combination of beautiful and manly.
“May I come in?” he asks, his voice sending a chill skittering down my spine. I can feel Emmy pulling him in, pulling him closer to me. I don’t back down. Something in me craves his closeness. Wants more of it.
I tip my chin up, my lips tingling with an unspoken desire for him to touch them, caress them. Devour them. “Of course,” I reply, yet neither of us moves.