Page 50 of The Bitterroot Inn (Jamison Valley 5)
But, not wanting her to be uncomfortable, I backpedaled. “I get it. It’s too soon for a strange man to be alone with your son. No pressure at all, I just wanted to help.”
“Oh, no. It’s not that.” She giggled. “I trust you with Coby.”
One sentence and my shoulders sagged. I trust you with Coby. “Then what?”
She scrunched up her nose. “Pickle has had, um . . . diarrhea. Coby gave him too much people food last night and I didn’t want you to have to deal with that mess.”
“I’ve got the dog.” I snagged the leash from Coby and picked up Pickle. “You do the dishes and take a five-minute break.” I winked at her, loving how it always made her smile, then walked outside with my own wide grin.
“You know what’s special, Coby?”
“What?” he asked, hopping down the steps.
“Your mom’s smile.”
He looked over his shoulder. “Why?”
“Because it never stops.”
“Huh?”
I shook my head and chuckled. “Never mind, bud. Here.” I set down the puppy at the base of the stairs and hooked on his leash. “You can lead Pickle but I’ll take care of his poop. Okay?”
“Okay.” And off they went into the grass.
One day when he was a little older, I’d explain why Maisy’s smile was special. And then when he was a lot older, I’d explain how lucky he was to have inherited his smile from her and not his father.
Coby was the spitting image of Everett. His hair. His eyes. The shape of his face. Everything except for that smile. Everett’s smile had always been too cold. Too calculating. A genuine smile on his mirror image’s face suited it much better.
Physical traits aside, Coby was otherwise one-hundred-percent Maisy. He had her curious nature. He had her energy and spirit. And his presence brought peace to my heart, just like his mother’s.
Maisy and Coby Holt were remarkable people, proving something I’d always known.
Everett Carlson had been one stupid motherfucker.
Four hours later, I was lying on the bed in my room, listening for sounds next door. The second I heard a faint rustling through the wall, I flew off the bed and walked outside in my old jeans and white T-shirt.
“Maisy, it’s me, Hunter.” I smiled as I called out from the walkway outside the room. “I’m coming over there.” I took a few steps. “Here I come.” One more step. “I’m not going to attack you so please don’t throw a paintbrush at my head.”
I stepped into the doorway and held up my hands to ward off a potential attack.
“Ha ha,” she muttered. I dropped my hands to catch her rolling her eyes but smiling. “You’re freaking hilarious, Faraday.”
Entering the empty room, my eyes immediately feasted on Maisy’s bare, toned legs. She was wearing cutoff denim shorts and a white tank top, exposing her smooth and lightly tanned skin. Her electric-blue sports bra was peeking out underneath her tank top and she was barefoot, her toes painted the same blue as the bra.
When she bent to set down the paint tray she’d been holding, I quickly adjusted my dick so she wouldn’t see the tent in my jeans.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
I crossed the room and took a paintbrush from the box in the middle of the floor. “I’m helping you paint.”
“Have you ever painted before?”
“Walls? No. The last time I remember painting was with Crayola watercolors in middle-school art. But I’m kind of a smart guy so you can teach me.”
She sighed. “Hunter, you don’t have to do this. I really appreciate the offer but you’re already doing so much with the photographs and—”
“Hey.” I stopped her and stepped into her space. “Let me help. Please.”
