Page 10

CHAPTER TEN

T he baby was asleep again, her little head resting against Paul’s chest, one fist curled up near her chin like she’d passed out mid-argument. Her breath was warm against his collarbone, rhythmic and soft. For the first time that day, the world felt… quiet.

The mayor’s house came into view. It was a modest two-story brick place with a porch swing and warm light glowing behind the curtains. Smoke puffed gently from the chimney. The scent of burning wood hit Paul just as he reached the front steps.

He knocked lightly, mindful of the baby’s sleep. The door opened almost immediately.

“Back already? I figured they'd have you at the bar until late.” Teddy Carter stepped aside and gestured Paul inside.

“The bar was educational,” Paul said as he stepped in. “Small towns know everything about everyone.”

The warmth of the house wrapped around him—cinnamon, fireplace, and something faintly citrusy. Probably Bunny’s doing. She had the vibe of someone who ran both a household and a calendar with color-coded labels.

“She do okay?” the mayor asked, nodding toward the baby.

“She’s good,” Paul said, adjusting the carrier as they moved toward the living room. “Out cold after the car ride. Must be a future road tripper.”

The mayor chuckled and led him toward the playpen in the corner of the room. Paul gently laid the baby inside, tucking the tiny blanket around her as she gave a half-hearted sigh in her sleep.

They both stood for a long moment, watching her.

“What happens next?” Teddy asked.

Paul didn’t answer right away. He rubbed the back of his neck, jaw tight.

“I investigate,” he said eventually. “Figure out if the mother’s fit to have her back. If this was abandonment or a desperate mistake.”

The mayor gave him a sidelong glance. “And what if it’s the second?”

Paul crossed his arms. “Then we reunite them. If it’s the first... we don’t.”

“But what’s best for the baby?” the mayor asked quietly.

Paul exhaled, long and tired. “That’s the part I’m trying to figure out.”

He looked down at the sleeping infant, tiny and unaware of the chaos swirling around her.

“Right now,” he added, “the best place for her is here. With you and your girlfriend.”

“Fiancée,” Teddy corrected proudly. “Bunny Chou is my fiancée now.”

Paul raised a brow. “That was fast.”

“Not really,” the mayor said, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Everyone knows if you manage to nab one of the Chou women, you lock it down before they get away. They’re quick. And they don’t come back around twice.”

Paul let out a half-laugh, but it caught in his throat. His mind flicked to Birdy. To the way her voice had trembled just slightly before she turned it into steel. To the way she’d looked at him like she might’ve let him in—right before he slammed the door to his heart in her face.

He cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll have the first interview with the mother scheduled soon. We’ll go from there.”

The mayor gave a nod, not pushing further. Just steady. Paul started for the door. He stepped out into the cold, heart heavier than when he’d walked in—and yet somehow lighter too.

The night had settled soft and quiet over the town, wrapping the streets in a hush broken only by the occasional crunch of salt under his tires.

Paul drove slowly, more from thought than caution.

His headlights cut a pale yellow beam through the darkness as he replayed the conversation with the mayor over and over in his head.

Lock them down before they get away.

He hadn’t even touched the idea of locking Birdy down. He’d practically pushed her off the cliff. And now? Now he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

He pulled into the driveway of the small rental house he was staying in. The porch lights turned on at his approach. They glowed like a distant campfire. Inside, the house was quiet except for the ticking clock in the kitchen and the slow whir of the heater kicking on.

Paul dropped his keys into the bowl by the door, kicked off his boots, and padded across the creaky hardwood to his desk. He sank into the chair. And sat.

The only light came from the small desk lamp—warm and gold—and the faint glow of his laptop screen as it hummed to life. He hadn’t meant to open it. Not really. But here he was.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the card that had come with the first batch of paperwork. Birdy Chou, Esq.

What kind of name was Birdy? And for that matter, her sister Bunny? Did they have a brother Bat?

The font on her card was simple. Elegant. Embossed in clean silver ink that practically dared you to underestimate her.

His thumb brushed over her name, the paper soft beneath his callused fingers. The corner was slightly bent—he must’ve worried it between his fingers more times than he realized.

Paul set it beside the keyboard and stared at the screen. Opened a blank message. His fingers hovered over the keys.

What would he even say?

Sorry I humiliated you in front of half the town?

He thought back to the online chat. To how open she’d been. The dry wit, the intelligence, the way she’d thanked him for helping her. He remembered how her tone had shifted when she talked about the work she did, about what it meant to her firm. The weight in her words. The hope.

He remembered the way she’d looked at him in the mayor’s office—hurt flashing across her face before she locked it down behind all that courtroom steel.

She hadn’t come in swinging. He’d made her raise her hackles. Because he’d assumed the worst.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling hard through his nose, guilt settling into the hollows of his chest like a cold wind creeping under the door. The cursor blinked on the screen, patient and pulsing.

He typed:

Birdy,

Then stopped. Deleted.

Typed again:

Ms. Chou,

Deleted that, too.

This wasn’t about professionalism. And it wasn’t about formality. This was about humility. And maybe—just maybe—a first step. His fingers hovered again.

Then he typed:

I owe you an apology.