Page 86 of Monk

I closed my eyes and dragged in a slow breath, trying to calm the frantic pounding in my chest.

Damn it.“Fine,” I said finally, opening my eyes. “But you go slow. You hear me? Slow.”

John’s mouth curved into a faint smile that was equal parts relief and amusement. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied.

I jabbed a finger at his chest. “I mean it, John. If anything happens to her?—”

“Nothing’s going to happen to her,” John said, and this time there wasn’t even a trace of humor left in his voice. “I promise.”

I held his gaze for a long second, measuring the certainty there against the terror in my own chest, and then finally I nodded. “Okay,” I said quietly. “Okay.”

Tatum let out a squeal of delight loud enough to send birds scattering from the oak tree by the barn. John turned back toward her, and I forced myself to move toward my father before I could change my mind.

“You’re doing the right thing,” Dad said as I opened the truck’s passenger door.

“Am I?” I muttered, helping him transfer from the wheelchair to the seat.

“He’s her father, Lina,” Dad said gently. “Let him be her father.”

I didn’t answer. I just folded the wheelchair, lifted it into the truck bed, and secured it with a bungee cord that snapped tight with a sharp thunk. When I turned back around, John was lifting Tatum onto the bike.

She was so small. So tiny against the massive machine that my pulse lurched all over again. But John’s hands were steady as he positioned her carefully on the seat just in front of where he’d sit, making sure she was centered and secure before he swung his leg over behind her. Then his arms came around her, caging her in completely. Protective. Possessive. Claiming her as his in the most primal way imaginable.

My throat tightened when Tatum twisted around just enough to look back at him, her whole face glowing with trust and happiness.

“Ready?” John asked.

“Ready!” Tatum said.

John looked up at me.

Our eyes met, and whatever he saw in my face must have been enough, because he gave the smallest nod before starting the engine. The rumble rolled through the yard again, and Tatum let out a delighted little laugh that carried all the way to the porch.

“Hold on tight, baby girl,” John said.

And then they were moving. Slowly at first, just like I had demanded. The bike rolled down the gravel driveway with the engine purring low and controlled, sunlight flashing off chrome, Tatum’s laughter carrying back on the breeze like music.

I stood there frozen, one hand still resting on the truck door, and watched them go. Watched my daughter ride away with her father. Watched John close his body around her like a shield. Watched something that had been missing from both of them begin, right in front of me, to take shape. Beside me, Dad started laughing softly.

“What?” I asked, my voice too tight.

“Nothing,” Dad said, still chuckling. “Just... you picked a good one, Lina.”

I didn’t answer. I just watched until the bike reached the end of the driveway and turned out onto the road, the red glow of the taillight flashing once in the morning sun before they disappeared from sight.

I stood there for a long moment after they were gone, heart pounding, hands trembling just enough to make me curl them into fists.

This was real. John was Tatum’s father. He was here. And everything in me was starting—however reluctantly, however painfully—to believe he wasn’t going anywhere this time.

“Come on,” Dad said, pulling me back to myself. “Let’s go before they eat all the food.”

I nodded and climbed into the driver’s seat. But as I started the engine and pulled out of the driveway, I couldn’t stop replaying the way John had looked at Tatum.

The way he had held her. The way his entire body had curved around hers without thought, like protecting her was already instinct. The way he had promised to keep her safe. And for the first time in seven years, I let myself believe him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Lina