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Her face twists. “Boundaries.”

Wren appears next to us, and we take her hands in ours. The three of us twirl like our only purpose in life is this very moment. And when my eyes meet with Ford’s, he smiles, looking at me like I’m worth it.

For the first time in my life, with my best friend at one hand, a kid that doesn’t belong to me in the other, and a man looking at me like he thinks I’m the best thing he’s ever laid eyes on, I don’t want a single thing to change. Not even the past.

Thirty-Three

“Idon’tknowwhywe’re at your house,” I murmur into Ford’s mouth. He fumbles to get a key in the door with one hand, refusing to take the other off me.

“I can’t do what I want to do to you on Archie’s floor mattress,” he says, swinging the door open, our lips fused as we tumble into the darkness.

My body curves into his, and just his fingers gripping into the fabric of my dress makes my hips go soft. The fact I’m still clothed is mostly unbelievable since his hand on my thigh the entire drive home had me burning like a kerosene-soaked bed of charcoal. When he started sucking on my shoulder, I swerved off the road.

A lamp topples to the floor when we bump into a table, and it pulls us apart with a breathless laugh. Ford flicks on a light; I pick up the lamp.

As excited as I am to see what grown-up Ford can do with that body of his, being in his house is just as intriguing. I’ve droppedWren off, but I’ve never had a reason to come in. Never let myself get close enough to be invited. And now here I am, ground zero of where Ford and Wren are a family.

It’s a modest ranch house, nothing fancy on the outside, but inside it’s completely updated. Cozy and lived in. I step out of his grip and start to wander around the living room. I run my fingers across the back of a sectional couch and wooden coffee table, pausing at every picture covering the walls and bookshelves. Ford and Wren at all phases of life. Halloween costumes. Christmas mornings. Wren holding signs of first days of school, Ford receiving awards in different uniforms. A life so different than the one I’ve had. There are several of him as a kid; one of me, Zeb, and him. At that one we exchange a look, but the thickness in my throat warns me not to dwell on it. I pick each of them up and set them down, and he walks behind me, filling in a few times at what I’m looking at. At one of a little Wren and a woman I don’t recognize, he says, “Riley. Her mom.”

I think of the article and the woman she killed. He got shot and we never talked about it. Now isn’t the time either.

I simply nod, setting it back down. “I have to tell you something,” I say, looking at him. “I’ve been taking Wren to a therapist.”

He smiles gently. “I know. Insurance contacted me about a form filled out wrong. I put the pieces together. She listed me on the paperwork, so they could at least tell me she was going. Figured you’d tell me when I needed to know.”

Relief is instantaneous.

“I can’t tell you why. I promised her.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Okay.”

I blow out a breath, lips making a raspberry sound, feeling lighter as I look to the bookshelf we’ve stopped at. “I don’t know why you trust me with her. I feel like everything I tell her is most definitely the opposite of what I should be saying. I’m no parent, Ford. There’s a good chance I’m ruining her for life.”

He chuckles, taking a step as I do. “Scotty, there are a million parenting handbooks out there with a million pieces of advice. The truth is, nobody knows how to do it. Every kid is different. Every damn one. And guess where the book is that teaches you how to deal with a teenager whose mom was an addict and killed a girl?”

I look at him.

“Exactly. None of us know what we’re doing. You’re helping, whether you see it or not, you are.”

“Maybe.” A notebook with birds on the cover grabs my attention. I pick it up and thumb through it. A list, some of the boxes checked. I look at him.

He smiles, almost sheepish. “Birds of the southeast. I’m trying to see them all.”

I laugh softly, setting it back down next to a bird guidebook and a pair of binoculars. “What a strange feeling it is to be jealous of birds,” I tease, rounding the room to stop at a small space of wall. “And I like your house.”

“Mmm.” He rubs his nose against my cheek. “I like you in my house.”

“Really?” The touch of his hands as my back hits the wall nearly makes me melt. “What else do you like?”

Against my bare shoulder he works lips and tongue across my skin, barely stopping to say, “I like how your nipples look in my shirt you wear to bed.”

Ladies and gentlemen, we are off to the races.

“Silenced again, Viper?” He slides my dress up my hip, leading to me hooking one leg around him.

“No.” My voice is raspy as his mouth moves from my shoulder to jaw. “I’m trying to figure out the virtuous way to tell you that I’m hot and bothered and you’re taking too damn long.”

He growls—a very sexy noise I want to record for every lonely night I ever have—and lifts me up, my dress bunching around my waist as he presses his lips to mine. He carries me down the hall, stopping to kick open a door.