Page 38 of Pour Decisions (Stryker Family #3)

JD

Two and a half years later

“Look, a butterfly,” I say softly to my daughter, Alia.

The butterfly drifts onto a flower not far from where we’re playing in the backyard. She’s a little over a year old and curious about everything we see in our frequent times in the yard. Lately it’s mostly been birds, but now that it’s spring, more creatures have been venturing in.

Like this butterfly. He must have missed the news that this yard isn’t the place for him if he values his life.

I sense Bubba behind me before I see him and tense. His hot breath is on my shoulder as he slowly inches closer.

“Bubba,” I say, keeping my tone as even as possible so I don’t alarm the baby. “Leave it.”

Bubba slowly sinks to his haunches, his eyes locked on the insect. He’s practically vibrating trying to obey while the butterfly drifts inches from his face.

Alia’s big, brown eyes widen with delight and she puts a chubby little hand out. Like magic, the butterfly lands on one of her little curly pigtails, then drifts to her hand.

Bubba whines, crawling toward her. His favorite thing is stealing licks off her perpetually damp or sticky hands, so the butterfly on her hand? It’s like a drug.

“Don’t, Bubba,” I say.

I keep an eye on him, holding onto Alia so she doesn’t go stumbling away. She’s walking, but she isn’t the most graceful.

I should have kept my eye on Alia, because she tries to put the butterfly into her mouth. I manage to move just fast enough for the butterfly to fly away, making her cry out in protest.

“No,” she whimpers.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” I say, scooping her up. “We can’t eat those.”

“ Nooo… ”

Bubba looks up at me, almost like he’s mad on her behalf. Her stomach isn’t filled with battery acid like his, and I doubt butterflies are good to eat.

Alia fusses more, so I bring her back inside, where Kat is done with her shower. Tonight we’re having pasta, so she’s portioning up our bowls, plus Alia’s silicone food mat. Bubba’s loved being able to suction down whatever she drops.

“What happened?” Kat asks, her eyes wide.

“Tried to eat a butterfly.” I rub Alia’s back up and down, pressing a kiss to her head to soothe her. Kat reaches for her and takes the baby, soothing her in seconds.

I always knew Kat would be a great mother—way better than her own, who she’s remained no-contact with—but seeing her actually with Alia makes me fall in love with her all over again.

“Alia? Not Bubba?” Kat takes Alia, who starts calming down.

“Yep.” I sigh and rub Alia’s back as she settles into Kat’s shoulder. “Bubba managed to have some self-control.”

Bubba wags his tail before wandering to the back again, staring out the window like the butterfly is still waiting for him.

“For once.” She snorts and takes Alia to her highchair at the table. I grab our food and try to shoo Bubba away from Alia’s chair. But he becomes a dead weight.

I’ve denied him the butterfly, so at least I can let him have some floor pasta.

We eat dinner leisurely—mostly because Alia’s eating style isn’t exactly focused—and go into the backyard as the sun starts to set. We sit on a blanket together, relaxing.

Since we’d already missed out on a decade together, Kat and I moved fast—she officially moved in with me instead of trying to find a new place, and I proposed our first Valentine’s Day together again. We got married that fall and Alia came along about a year ago.

In the time since I took over the company, it’s changed. We still do a lot of what we did in the past, but we’ve taken on some of June’s more laidback ways since we acquired them. I wouldn’t have spent the whole evening relaxing before, but now it’s like this after work every day.

I’d rather spend time with my family making fun memories rather than driving us toward a specific goal. Alia is going to do whatever she wants when she grows up, and I’m going to be proud of her.

Dad is proud of me now, but I don’t need him to be anymore.

“Uh-oh,” Kat says.

Another butterfly with a death wish. It floats over and Alia jumps to her feet. Kat holds her by the waist.

“Soft hands,” she says to Alia as she extends her hands toward the butterfly. “He’s not food.”

“No, Bub,” I say to the dog, who, once again, looks like he’s straining to stay still.

The butterfly lands on Alia’s fingers, and this time, she just giggles until it flies away.

It’s a little whimsical. And I don’t hate it at all.

THE END