“Spaghetti and meatballs?”
“Yep.” She savored her daughter’s soft body sprawled over her thighs and the scent of her coconut shampoo. Her pink T-shirt boasted her favorite Disney princess, Ariel, because they had the same hair color. Her jeans had pink sparkles and matched the glittery nail polish on her fingers and toes. Already Becca was moving away from her cuddling, demanding more alone time and independence to read, draw, or play on her Kindle. How had so much time flashed by without her realizing it? She used to laugh at mothers warning her to enjoy the toddler years, when she’d just prayed to be out of diapers and formula and sleepless nights. Now her daughter was reading on her own and had a group of friends she insisted on seeing at regular revolving playdates. She was going to be a powerhouse one day, but until Becca grew into that power, Sydney tried to keep her daughter’s temper, and independence, in check. “I can’t believe you’re going to be seven,” she murmured, stroking her daughter’s hair.
“Was Matilda seven in the movie?” Becca asked. “’Cause I want to be like her.”
“I think so. Wait a minute—you want to have terrible parents who lock you up, are mean, and don’t let you go to school?”
Her daughter giggled. “No, but she gets to watch TV all the time. I’d like that part.”
“Brat.” Another giggle. Becca was always trying to finagle more television time. “For now, I need to get started on dinner. Sorry I’ve been working late this week.”
“That’s okay, Mama, but don’t forget about my ballet recital.”
“I’d never forget that. Are you nervous?”
“A little.”
“I’ll get there early so I can be in the front row, okay?”
Her daughter’s smile was Sydney’s heaven and earth, exploding her heart with a fierce emotion that still humbled her. From the moment Becca pushed her way into the world, wailing in pissed-off fury, Sydney tumbled into a love that knew no bounds.
The voice she’d shoved deep inside, trapped in a locked box of her own making, slithered up to whisper.
She doesn’t just belong to you . . .
Dear God, it was getting worse. Every day since the Pierce brothers came home, she’d struggled. Her peaceful, ordered existence was shredded to nonexistence. Now she was haunted every day. Every night. Haunted by the truth she’d sworn to hide when Becca was born.
Her thoughts broke off as her daughter shot off her lap, snuggling complete. “I’m hungry, Mama. Can I go play?”
“Yes, I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.” She watched her daughter bound up the stairs, and with a sigh, Sydney headed to the kitchen. Her home was small but perfect for the two of them, a yellow-shingled bi-level on a dead-end road. With a small fenced-in yard and no worries about traffic, she felt safe and secure, tucked away from the world. She’d decorated the house with all the girly stuff she loved—throw pillows in bright teal, cozy afghans, and fuzzy throw rugs supersoft under bare feet. She liked her work ruthlessly organized and her house casually messy. A good thing, because Becca was a whirlwind of activity and she was constantly reminding her to pick up her toys so she didn’t trip on Barbie dolls, DVDs, and books.
Sydney opened the refrigerator, removing the thawed tilapia and slipping into mechanical mode. She still told Becca it was special chicken since her daughter gave her a hard time about eating fish. Dumping the fillet into a pan, she doctored it with citrus, dill and basil, olive oil, fresh garlic, and Himalayan salt. The potatoes were scrubbed and slid into the oven, and she grabbed a bag of frozen peas to steam—her child’s only accommodation to green vegetables. She removed a bottle of Chardonnay from the refrigerator and poured herself half a cup, sighing with pleasure at the first cold, fruity sip.
As she moved around the kitchen in a dance she could complete with her eyes closed, she mentally ticked down the list of items to complete before the weekend. Running Pierce Brothers was a challenge, but she took pride in the way she was able to consistently multitask and keep the office running smoothly. When she’d first started there and Christian Pierce was alive, she was a simple receptionist, learning the business from the ground up. Funny, she always knew that was exactly what she wanted to do with her life. She had no dreams to attend college or leave Harrington. She was happy in the quaint Northeast town, working in a family corporation where she was not only valued, but admired.
It had been Tristan who’d wanted to leave.
The memory caught hold and played out. God, how she’d loved him. Since she was twelve years old she’d been following him around like a lost puppy, thrilled at any type of attention he wished to throw her. She’d been like the annoying little sister to their crew of three, and though Cal and Dalton treated her more kindly, there were no burning, lustful feelings toward them.