Page 91 of Trusting You

23

Carter

I’m in the shower and haven’t bothered to turn up the heat. I need the water cold, like chillingly, numbingly, cold so I can get the image of Locke out of my head.

But what’s sexier than a hot, single dad doting on his baby girl? Anything? Anything?

Add a perfectly sculpted bare torso to it.

“Crap,” I say, then turn so my face is under the spray.

I’ve been doing so well these past few days, pretending like Locke means nothing. Like our one night together meant old, faded copper pennies that one finds with dust bunnies under their couch. It’s taken all I have to stay quiet and unmoved while he wanders his apartment without a shirt on, plays with Lily while bending down and displaying his perfect ass, and puts her down for naps, Lily sleepily sucking her thumb while lying against his tanned shoulder.

And now I get to add exercise to that list. His dewy, muscled body glistening as he makes Lily laugh, or lying flat on the floor, his hair thrown around by activity and Lily’s fingers.

Was he shirtless so often on purpose?

You’re mad at him. He lied to you. Kept the deeply important fact of his addiction, however brief he thinks it was, from you.

That reminder is better than any cold shower. It’s been fueling my blank looks and uncaring stares this entire time. Because nothing, nobody, is more important than Lily’s well-being.

I scrub hard at my scalp, hearing Lily’s “Dada!” in my head. It was a moment I couldn’t remain stoic for. The sheer glee on Locke’s face, like he couldn’t believe this creature he’s been caring for, doting on, can return the favor by showing him some love as well.

Now he knows. All those hours of sleepless nights, the constant worry of being a bad parent, the insanely high octaves of endless wails, can culminate to a single, heart-rendering word, making it all worth it: dada.

Or mama, but Paige hadn’t lived long enough to hear Lily speak.

Another cold dash unrelated to my shower scrapes across my chest. I’m not sure, if ever, I’ll be able to think about Paige and all she’s lost without such hopelessness following suit.

I let out a frustrated groan, wishing I could punch the tiles without getting seriously hurt, but settle for turning the tap off extra hard instead. I’m shivering, but revel in it since it centers me in reality instead of any wayward memories, whether they be about Locke or Paige.

Wrapping a towel around myself, I crack open the door to see Locke—still shirtless—building himself a sandwich in the kitchen. Lily’s nowhere I can see, but the telltale sound of her white noise machine lets me know she’s down for her last nap.

“Sandwich?” Locke asks once he hears me and turns.

Water streams down my back from my wet hair, and it feels like ice melting. “I’m good, thanks. Had some scones with Pierce.”

“I make a mean ham and swiss; just sayin’,” Locke says to me as I head to the nursery. Then he mumbles in a ridiculously bad British accent, “Better than any dry, crumby, fucking crumpet.”

My hand’s on the doorknob to my and Lily’s room, and I curse. I can’t go in there and search for clothing while Lily’s asleep.

“I laid out some options for you while you were in the shower,” Locke says, coming into the main room. He’s drying his hands with a dish towel as he gestures to the couch, where I see a few dresses laying. “I wanted to wait until you got out, but she was getting extra cranky, so…”

“It’s no problem,” I say, tucking a wet tendril behind my ear and scanning his choices, but he remains where he is.

“I, uh…I didn’t want to be that creep that goes through your underwear drawer, so that’s all you’re missing.”

I look up, and he’s staring at me like he’s picturing me without underwear. Instantly, I go hot all over.

“That’s okay,” I say, and it comes out more guttural than intended. “I’ll make do until she wakes up.”

He nods, but his throat is bobbing like he’s withstanding some sort of pain. “I hope I did right with the dresses.”

I’m clutching my towel like it isn’t knotted securely against my chest. Telling myself to chill, I reach down and sift through the three dresses Locke grabbed from my makeshift closet. I don’t have much to begin with, so I’m not surprised Locke went with the sexiest black cocktail attire I have—the red number I wore out with Astor—and some purple thing that must be Sophie’s. I’m convinced she packed this for my use during a one-night stand since it’s mostly straps and buckles.

I go with the black. It, at least, has a bit of lace against the cleavage but is sexy enough that I won’t look like a prude in front of the pack of men who are apparently escorting me out tonight.

Still not sure how I feel about that. Is it possible to be a fifth wheel when you’re the only woman?