Page 120 of Finding His Redemption

Oliver sat cross-legged on the rug, painting another watercolor masterpiece while Echo lay beside him, her chin resting on his knee. The kid wore dinosaur pajamas that made Jax’s chest tight with something he couldn’t name.

“Morning, buddy.” Jesus, his voice was rough. He cleared his throat. “You feeling better?”

Oliver nodded enthusiastically, holding up his paintbrush. “Echo wants to paint again. I’m making her a picture of all the horses at your ranch.”

The paper was covered in brown and black splotches that might have been horses if you squinted and used your imagination. Echo’s tail thumped against the floor, and Jax could swear the dog was actually watching Oliver work.

“That’s really nice of you.” He settled on the couch, close enough to keep an eye on them but far enough away to give the kid space.

Oliver dipped his brush in yellow paint, adding what looked like a sun to his masterpiece. “Are you gonna stay for breakfast? I know how to make toast.”

The casual way Oliver asked it, like having Jax there was the most natural thing in the world, made his throat constrict. This kid had no idea how much those words meant to a man who’d spent five years believing he didn’t deserve to be wanted anywhere.

“If your mom says it’s okay,” Jax managed.

“She will.” Oliver’s certainty was absolute, the way only a seven-year-old’s could be. He set down his paintbrush and looked at Jax with those big brown eyes. “You made her happy last night. I could hear her laughing.”

Heat flooded Jax’s face. “Yeah?” He didn’t remember Nessie laughing last night—moaning, yes. Gasping and whimpering and all but sobbing his name when she broke apart—but if that washow Oliver wanted to frame those noises, he wasn’t going to correct him.

“She doesn’t laugh very much.” Oliver picked up his brush again, adding more yellow to his painting. “I think she was scared for a long time. Before we came here.”

The kid was too perceptive for his own good. Jax wondered how much Oliver understood about their life before Solace, about the man they’d run from. Probably more than Nessie realized.

“Sometimes grown-ups get scared,” Jax said carefully. “But that doesn’t mean they’ll always be scared.”

Oliver nodded, like this made perfect sense. “Like Echo. She was scared when you first found her, but now she’s not.”

“Exactly like Echo.”

The dog’s ears perked up at her name, and she lifted her head to look at Jax. Her tail wagged once, lazy and content, so different from the broken animal he’d found cowering in the kennel. Calmer. Settled. Like she’d finally found where she belonged.

Maybe they all had.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and they both turned. Nessie appeared a moment later, wrapped in a terry cloth robe, her hair mussed from sleep and all the other things they’d done last night. When her eyes found his, a flush crept up her neck, and Jax’s body heated in response. She blushed like that right before she climaxed, too.

“Morning,” she said softly.

“Morning.” He wanted to go to her, pull her into his arms, and kiss her until they both forgot their names, but he stayed put. They hadn’t talked about how to handle this in front of the kid.

“Jax is gonna stay for breakfast,” Oliver announced, solving that problem. “I already asked him.”

Nessie’s smile was warm as she ruffled her son’s hair. “Is he now?”

“If that’s okay with you,” Jax said, searching her face for any sign of regret about last night. He didn’t find it. All he saw was contentment and something softer that he wasn’t ready to examine too closely.

“More than okay.” She moved to the kitchen, and he caught a whiff of her scent as she passed. “Coffee?”

“God, yes.”

She laughed, the sound light and free, and Jax understood what Oliver meant. This wasn’t the careful, guarded laughter he’d heard from her before. This was joy, pure and unfiltered.

While Nessie started the coffee, Oliver showed Echo his finished painting. The dog sniffed the paper solemnly, her tail wagging in what looked like approval.

“She likes it,” Oliver declared. “Echo has very good taste in art.”

“The best,” Jax agreed, and meant it. Any creature that could see the beauty in a seven-year-old’s watercolor horses deserved respect.

The smell of coffee filled the small kitchen, mingling with the faint scent of rain drifting in from the partly open window.