Page 38 of Trusting You

We get into a rhythm, and then I start singing. It’s a folk song, one my grandmother used to sing to me when I was sick, and I couldn’t tell you where it came from. But it worked for Lily at three months, and it works for her now.

Her cries turn to whimpers, then murmurs, as I keep going.

I’m surprised how easy it is to pull Locke close, to let him listen to me sing. I’m even more taken aback by the wash of chills I feel on his neck and the reciprocating tingles in the pads of my fingers that grow, trailing down my arm, onto my shoulder, through my breast until my nipple starts feeling the electricity, too.

Locke’s eyes fall shut at the touch, but he’s awake, still swaying. Lily’s are drooping, her forehead falling against Locke’s chest.

I don’t tell Locke it’s okay to put Lily down now. I bring my own forehead into Locke’s chest too, and I feel his grip around my waist tighten, a hold I hadn’t known he’d maintained.

Soon, with only the streetlights from outside painting the room in golden lowlights, the three of us grow silent, my and Locke’s light foot taps the only sound in the room.

It wakes me up.

I push off Locke. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a moment of quiet, and then he says, “We say that a lot to each other, don’t we?”

His voice is husky but soft.

It’s too easy to fall into the lure of his tone, the dim light of this room, the soft snores of Lily.

“I should go,” I whisper, backing up. “I-I mean, I know this is my room, but I should go for now. Make sure Lily’s really asleep, before coming back in—”

“Carter.”

“I’m going to leave you alone. Give you time.”

“Car—”

But he doesn’t finish. I’ve shut the door and left him and Lily in the nursery.