Page 49 of Desperate Games

Forget the curve of her waist.

The fire in her voice.

The way she moaned my name like it meant something.

Like I meant something.

Just forget.

I glance down at my hands.

They're still calloused from field work, still steady on a weapon or a trigger or a steering wheel at ninety miles an hour.

But if I close my eyes, I swear I can still feel the way she fit under them.

Forget her?

Yeah, right.

It might be easier to forget my own fucking name.

Chapter Twelve-Remy

Mom left the moment my plane landed.

Now I’m at Carter & Cove Home Emporium, a few miles outside Roseland, New Jersey, where I just closed on the new house.

The place I hope will finally feel like home. At least for her.

I crouch down beside the miniature velvet throne where Callie’s perched like royalty, one leg thrown over the other, surrounded by pink swatches and glitter-covered samples like she’s making state decisions.

“Do you want sparkles and butterflies, or just butterflies?” I ask, holding up the options.

She tilts her head, curls bouncing, lips pursed in serious thought.

Then, she jabs a tiny finger between the two.

“Both, Dad,” she declares with all the confidence of a queen preparing for battle.

My throat tightens.

“Both it is,” I say, ruffling her soft hair. “You’re the boss.”

And she is.

All thirty-five pounds of her.

This tiny, fierce little girl has me completely wrapped around her finger, and I’m not even mad about it.

But what wrecks me—what really gets me—is what she called me.

Dad.

It’s new. And it hit harder than I expected.

Apparently, the kids in her preschool group talk about their dads. Show-and-tell stories, weekend plans, who teaches them to ride a bike or tie a shoe.

Callie didn’t want to be left out. So my mom—God bless her—gave her permission.