Page 207 of The Grump Next Door
Through the window, I can see the guest cottage. The light’s still on. Poppy’s probably up planning the Summers wedding, the Dayton anniversary, or any of the dozen events that make up our beautifully chaotic life.
“Mama?” Emma asks, voice small and sleepy.
“Working. But she’ll come kiss you soon.” I adjust her weight, keeping her secure.
“‘Kay.” She accepts this easily, trusting.
She’s getting heavy in that way that means sleep’s winning. I should put her back in the crib. I should go back to bed. I should do a lot of things.
Instead, I keep rocking.
“Love you, Emmy girl.”
“Wuv you, Dada.”
And damn. There it is. The thing that breaks me every time.
Twenty minutes later, Poppy finds us. I hear her before I see her—bare feet on hardwood, that little sigh she makes when she sees us.
“Hey,” she whispers, leaning against the doorframe.
“Hey yourself.” I keep rocking, not wanting to disturb Emma.
She kneels beside the chair, running her fingers through Emma’s curls with infinite gentleness. “She woke up?”
“Bad dream.” I keep my voice low and soothing.
She gives me that look. The one that says I’ve gone soft, but she loves me anyway.
“Come on.” She eases Emma from my arms with practiced precision. Our girl doesn’t even stir. “Bed. Both of you.”
I watch Poppy tuck Emma in, smoothing the blanket, adjusting the goat just so, kissing her forehead with such tenderness it makes my chest ache.
Back in our room, Poppy pulls me into bed, immediately curling into my side. Her spot. It has been since that first night in Italy when we decided to blow up our lives for each other.
“Missed you,” she murmurs into my chest.
“You saw me three hours ago.” But I’m already wrapping my arms around her.
“Still missed you.” She presses closer, seeking warmth.
I pull her closer. She’s cold—always is when she works late. I run my hands down her back, trying to warm her up.
“Dayton anniversary?” I guess, feeling her relax into me.
“Mm. They want doves.” There’s exhaustion in her voice.
“‘Course they do.” I kiss the top of her head.
“Told them we’d discuss alternatives.” She yawns against my shoulder.
“Good girl.”
She laughs softly, the sound vibrating through me. “Remember when you tried to ban all livestock from events?”
“Tried being the operative word.” I’m smiling into the darkness.
We’re quiet for a minute, just breathing together. These are my favorite moments—when the world stops and it’s just us. No depositions. No timelines. No negotiations with terrorist toddlers.
