Page 49 of Promises in the Dark

I step into my home, shrugging off my jacket and hanging it on the hook beside the door. Rolling my neck from side to side, I work out the stiffness that settled there sometime around my third meeting of the day. It was a long day, the kind that has me wanting to strip down and soak in the hot tub on the deck with a glass of whiskey in my hand and the stars as my backdrop.

Soft music echoes from the living room, so I follow it to investigate. When I enter, I stop in my tracks at the image before me.

Charlotte is sound asleep on the couch with Clara snug against her, her chest slowly rising and falling with each breath. Charlotte’s head rests against a pillow, loose strands of blonde hair spilling across her shoulders. Her arms wrap around Clara like a secure blanket while Clara’s little fingers clutch Charlotte’s sweater. The two of them look so comfortable with the other, like they belong together.

A warmth settles beneath my ribs so suddenly it nearly steals the air from my lungs, leaving me startled.

I step toward them and lower myself onto the coffee table. For a long moment, I simply watch them, wondering what she’s dreaming about. Is Garrett haunting her dreams, or is Clara’s presence enough to keep the monsters away?

My hand reaches out, my knuckles gently stroking over Charlotte’s cheek. “Charlotte,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper, careful not to wake my little girl sleeping safely in her arms.

She stirs, her eyelashes fluttering open until all I focus on are her soft green eyes, which widen before she quickly looks down at Clara tucked against her chest.

She adjusts herself, trying to sit up. “I’m so sorry. I should have brought her to bed,” she whispers. “But she was enjoying the music in the movie and—”

I gently rest my hand on her shoulder, stopping her. “It’s okay.” The corner of my lips lifts. “I’ll bring her to bed.” Carefully, I slide my arms beneath Clara, mindful not to brush against Charlotte more than necessary. Even half asleep, Clara instinctively reaches for me, settling against my chest with a sleepy sigh before resting her head on my shoulder. I reach for Squish on the cushion and hold him securely in my grip. My gaze returns to Charlotte. “Did you eat dinner?”

She sits, stretching her arms above her head. “No.”

“Neither did I.” I glance toward the kitchen. “How about pasta al limone? I’ll cook.”

“You cook?” she asks, genuinely surprised.

I grin. “I’m insulted.” I place my free hand over my heart in mock offense. “I’m Italian. It would dishonor my entire bloodline if I didn’t at least know how to make the basics.”

A soft laugh escapes her. “No, that’s not what I meant.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s just…” Her voice grows quieter. “No one’s ever offered to make me dinner before.”

My heart constricts.

Not because she’s asking for pity.

But because she says it as though it’s perfectly normal.

She stands, pulling down on her sweater. “Want me to pull out the ingredients?”

I think for a moment before saying, “Sure. It requires spaghetti, lemons, Parmigiano, heavy cream, butter, and black pepper.”

She nods as though committing the list to memory. “I can do that.” She takes a few steps toward the kitchen before glancing back over her shoulder. “Need me to prep anything?”

I lift a brow. “Think you can handle grating the Parmigiano?”

She smiles softly. “I can do that.”

She disappears into the kitchen while I carry Clara upstairs. Inside her room, I carefully lower her into her crib and slip my arms out from beneath her, placing Squish right beside her. She snuggles against the mattress, a tiny smile playing at her lips as she dreams peacefully.

“Good night, little one,” I whisper. “I love you to the moon and stars.”

Before I leave, I turn on her sound machine and her nightlight, and after one last look to make sure she’s comfortable, I quietly pull the door closed behind me and head downstairs.

I make my way into the kitchen and find Charlotte at the island, grating Parmigiano. As I approach, she looks up at me, smiling.

That is until she nicks her finger and hisses, dropping the grater. Fuck.

Within only a second, I’m by her side, gently holding her injured hand so I can inspect the damage. Blood drips from the tip of her finger, a few drops landing on the white counter. It’s nothing serious. But it is enough to make my pulse accelerate entirely too fast. I guide her toward the sink and turn on the cold water. Holding her hand beneath the stream, I watch as the water washes soothingly over her injury.

She doesn’t say a word.

She just watches our hands beneath the running water.