Hesitantly, I came closer, trying to read his mood. His face was blank, though, so I studied the outline on the wall instead. It looked like . . .
“Is that a princess riding a motorcycle with a unicorn horn on her helmet?” I asked, bemused. Painter nodded.
“Yup, it’s what Izzy wanted,” he said. “Hate to break it to you, but she wants the princess and the motorcycle to be pink. I’m doing it in regular latex house paint, by the way. I’ve got a feeling she’ll want it changed at some point.”
“Hopefully some point soon,” I said. “I’m really tired of pink and I’m pretty sure I could vomit unicorns on demand.”
He laughed. “Yeah, me, too.”
Stepping up to the wall, I traced my finger along the sketch, thinking about what it would look like when he was done. “She’s going to love it.”
“That’s the goal,” he said. “She told me that she wants to look at it and remember she has a daddy when I’m not around.”
Ouch.
“She loves you.”
“I know.”
Turning to look at him, I cocked my head.
“I’m really tired,” I said. “So I don’t have the energy to play games right now. Are we going to fight?”
He shook his head. “No. I was pissed at you last night. For a while I figured you were probably off fucking some other guy, then I realized how stupid that was. London wouldn’t tell me where you were—Reese must’ve mentioned what happened up in Callup, because she treated me like a serial killer. Just in case you ever wonder whose side she’s on . . .”
I smiled.
“I got lucky with her,” I acknowledged. “When my own mom bailed, she took me in, just like she took in Jessica. She’s been a grandma to Izzy, a mother to me . . . but I’ll never understand why Mom left. I look at Isabella and can’t wrap my head around it, because I’d die before disappearing on her.”
Like you did in prison.
“Are you ever going to forgive me?” he asked softly, catching my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Sometimes it feels like you hate me out of habit. It’s still between us—that chemistry. Sex isn’t the problem. And I’m a good dad to Isabella. I help you out as much as you’ll let me. I fuckin’ hate your job at the ER, but I’m not telling you to stop doing it because I know it’s important to you. So why does it always have to be a fight, Mel?”
Shaking my head, I leaned forward into his chest. His arms came around me, rubbing my back. It felt good. Safe.
“It scares me,” I confessed.
“What?”
“That I can care about you this much. You’re a mystery to me— you play with our daughter, you paint her pink motorcycles. You even let her dress you up like a fairy that one time and had a tea party with her.”
He groaned.
“How did you find out about that?”
“She told me,” I said, biting back a smile. “And she drew a picture. I took it to work and showed everyone. But I think you should be thanking me, because I seriously considered giving it to Reese.”
He groaned again, his hand running up my spine to the back of my neck. The muscles there were tight from a long night of work, and as he dug his knuckles in deep, I sighed with pleasure.
“So what’s the problem?”
“You beat Aaron up,” I said softly. “You really hurt him.”
“You could’ve gone to jail as his accomplice. He deserved it.”
“You didn’t know that when you attacked him—that was about you being jealous. That’s fucked up, Painter.”
“Probably,” he admitted. “And I was pissed at you last night, too, but I got over it. It’s true I lost my shit, but it’s also true that I don’t do it very often.”
“You could go back to jail.”
“You could get stabbed by a crazy guy in the ER.”
Pulling away, I frowned up at him. “That’s different. I’m doing something that helps people, remember? You’re . . . running drugs or something. I don’t even know what you do—you won’t tell me.”