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A smile crested on her face, sparking with the fire I’d been longing to see.
She held a hand out to me.
I took it, then climbed to my feet. Before her hand slipped from mine, I tugged her gently toward me. Our palms lingered, loosely entwined. Halley stared with a popeyed expression at our clasped hands, and I slowly pressed the underside of her palm to her still-thrumming chest.
“Feel that?” My eyes were pinned to the space between her breasts where our joined hands rested against her white tank top, the vibrations from her skittering heartbeats seeping through the pads of our fingertips.
“Fear,” she whispered back.
“No.” I shook my head, taking a small step closer until the toes of our shoes touched on the concrete. My thumb grazed her knuckles, my throat tightening with a heavy knot. “Power.”
She inhaled sharply.
The autumn breeze stole the loose pieces of her hair, lifting them, toying with them, and a beam of soft moonlight sprinkled stardust in her eyes. Those eyes lifted to mine, held tight, and?—
A car zoomed by.
I snatched my hand away from her chest, the moment severed.
For the fucking best.
I sliced sharp fingers through my hair and stepped back, knowing my place. Knowing damn well that my place was far, far away from my daughter’s best friend, no matter how proud of her I was, how protective I felt, or how dedicated I was to keeping her safe and making her strong.
She did wield power.
More than I wanted her to know.
I felt it, cursed it, wanted to claw it out of me until it was a bloody heap of tattered remains lumped at our feet. Snuffed out, stomped on, devoid of any flicker of life.
Stupid.
Wrong.
Borderline catastrophic.
Halley inched the coat up over her bare shoulder and cleared her throat, her gaze floating away from my face. “Ruthless,” she said, echoing her statement from earlier.
I forced a smile. “Capable.”
We resumed our trek down the sidewalk as Halley crossed her arms and my hands slipped into the pockets of my sweatpants. Her own hands were hidden by the baggy black leather as she tucked them underneath her armpits.
“Are you staying for dinner tonight?” she hedged, adrenaline still coursing through her, quickening her pace.
“Yeah. Tara has a date.” I grimaced at the notion. “You cooking?”
“Perogies.”
“About time.”
“I feel like I made good headway just now. A reason to celebrate.”
Nodding, I shot her another smile, this one less forced. I was proud of her. Not everyone could scoop up their trauma in two shaking hands and mold it into something worth holding. Her pain was clay, taking on a new form, a new shape. One day, it could become her greatest masterpiece.
And that was something to celebrate.
Whitney bumped her hip to mine as all four of us worked together in the kitchen, rolling out the remaining sections of dough. “Look at you,” she beamed, her wavy-brown hair piled up on top of her head. “All you’re missing is an apron.”
“Mm. Think I’ll pass.”