Page 45 of Homebound

I went from ecstatic to freaking the hell out in a millisecond, and then I spent over an hour googling what to do if your kid has a concussion and had to call my pediatrician (again) to ask about stunted brain development. Dr. Bigham is going to block my number.

“She okay?” he asks, sounding concerned.

“She’s fine. Just a little scratch,” I say, gently stroking the bump on her forehead. No need to make this into a bigger deal than it needs to be. “Isn’t that right, baby?”

I stick out my tongue to make her giggle. Her laughter fills the bathroom. “Dada! Mo!”

“Is Daddy funny? You want more tickles?” I coo, tickling her belly. She kicks around in the tub even harder.

I never realized how dangerous the world was until I had a kid. She could so easily knock her head on a kitchen counter or, I don’t know, put her hand down the garbage disposal one day.

People weren’t joking when they said having a kid is like having your heart ripped out of your chest and walking around freely on this planet, but worrying only makes me miss out on all the good moments with my girl.

“She’ll get there, man. When she’s ready.” Cruz must be able to sense that I don’t want to talk about that because he does a loud throat-clearing before changing the subject. “I still can’t believe you made a porn joke with Kodie. Do you need me to come down to Texas? Sounds like you need some reinforcements after that one.”

“Can we stop talking about that?” I pour some water over Vi’s head, dampening her golden curls to bronze. Every time I think of that, I cringe. “And no. Your ‘reinforcements’ would probably involve tequila, which would be a disaster. The last time I got tequila drunk, I rode a mechanical bull ’cause it made me think of Dakota.”

“I mean this in the nicest way, Patty, but you’re so down bad for that woman. You’ve got to get her, man. We’re gonna make this shit happen.”

I cast a quick look at the closed bathroom door to make sure she can’t overhear. There’s only one bathroom in our barndominium, and the door needs fixing, so it only locks if you slam it hard.

“What am I supposed to do?” I add, scooping up more water. “She’s taking me out to meet someone else tonight.”

He pauses, thinking. “If she wants you to be with someone else, then you should go for it. Make her see what she’s missing out on. Sometimes, people don’t know what they want until they see what someone else has.”

“No,” I say in an instant. “I can’t do that again.”

The idea of touching or kissing someone who isn’t her has my stomach twisting. I already tried getting over her that way, and it threw my life off track. Even then, I was the asshole who imagined it was Dakota when I was in bed with another woman.

“I’m not a one-night-stand kind of guy,” I admit. “So I’m not using someone else to make her jealous. That’s not fair to anyone, and I hate playing games.”

“It’s not playing games,” Cruz says in a low voice. It’s too quiet, like he’s trying not to say the wrong thing. “You’re a goddamn catch with an even cuter little catch. You deserve a woman who wants every part of you, Wyatt.”

Wyatt. Not Patterson, not Patty—Wyatt.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Aw, come on, Cruz,” I groan. “You’re really first-naming me?”

“That’s how you know I’m serious. I want you to be happy.”

I glance at the closed door to make sure she can’t hear me. “I still don’t think I can do that. It’s always gonna be her for me. She saved my life, and anytime I picture the woman I want my girl to grow up to be, it’s always like her. Determined. Hardworking. Caring… She’s it for me.”

Cruz pauses again. “Okay, then you’ve got to go back to the basics, man. Flirt with her.”

“What?”

“Dial up the charm. Stop acting like her fucking friend. Kiss her on the cheek. Put your arm around her. Let your hand drift down her lower back when you hold her. Act like it’s all normal. That way, when you make your next move, she’ll think it’s normal since you’ve been planting all these seeds in her subconscious. It’s psychology.”

There’s a gentleness in his voice I rarely hear. As much as I hate to admit it to myself, he might be right. I consider it. “That’s not a bad idea, actually—”

The door bursts open, and Dakota struts inside the bathroom—in nothing but a towel.

Her brown hair is piled up in a messy bun with little curls brushing her face, and I almost drop my phone in the soapy water at the sight of her. Christ, this woman.

If that towel falls, I’m going to have a problem in my jeans.

A big problem.