Written with Regret (The Regret Duet #1)(15)

The peace of mind, knowing my baby was in good hands, was worth every fucking penny.

From then on, things got easier. Rosalee grew up, and as a father, I grew with her. In the blink of an eye, she went from being this little, helpless baby to a walking and talking tornado. I swear I must have purchased every baby gate in existence to keep her from sneaking into the bathrooms to play in the toilets. And then, a year later, when it was time to start potty training, I couldn’t force her into the bathroom. Not even Alejandra had a magical fix for those three months filled with random puddles of pee we’d discover around the house any time we were barefoot.

What my baby lacked in bladder control, she excelled at in other areas. Rosalee was smart, loved animals as long as they had fur, and could talk her way out of trouble with a well-thought-out argument that would put a few attorneys I knew to shame. She was sassy and sweet, loved cuddles, and cried like the world was ending when she had to get shots at the doctor. (Not the same doctor we stole Alejandra from. We were asked to leave her practice immediately after that. Still…totally worth it.)

Ian had been right when we were in the hospital. My past hadn’t dictated my ability to love another human being. Yes, my life had been hell, filled with more pain and chaos than others saw in a lifetime. But falling in love with Rosalee Hunt was the easiest thing I had ever done.

It was funny how life worked. I’d spent twenty-nine years without the first desire to be a dad. But with Rosalee, I couldn’t look at her without thinking of all the incredible, life-altering things I would have missed.

And her laugh, as she sat across from me, dressed in a ball gown and giggling like a maniac over a silly story I’d made up to get of out trouble for working on her birthday, was at the very top of that list.

Reaching into my pocket, I took out the little, black box and slid it her way. “Happy Birthday, Rosalee.”

She squealed, diving for the box. “Is it a ferret? Oh, Daddy, please let it be a ferret.”

Yeah. She called me Daddy. And yeah. I loved it.

The first time she’d babbled dada, I’d known I was in trouble.

The first time she’d called me daddy, I’d nearly hit my knees.

And the first time she’d said “I love you, Daddy,” I’d frozen, my chest so tight that I thought there was a solid chance I was having a heart attack. Once I’d felt comfortable that I didn’t need to call an ambulance, I’d immediately gone to the bathroom, gotten in the shower, and fought back manly fucking tears in private.

Well, until she had come looking for me, thrown the shower curtain back, and asked why she didn’t have a penis.

After that, I’d started locking the bathroom door.

I looked from her to the box and then back to her again. “How big do you think ferrets are?”

“I don’t know.”

“Exactly. Which is why you can’t have one.”

Her mouth fell open, ready to fire off an objection more mature than any four-year-old should be able to muster.

“Ever,” I added. “You know the rule. No pets until you are old enough to take care of them yourself…and I mean in your own apartment when you’re old enough to move out.”

“That’s not fair!”

“I know, right? Your dad is the worst.”

She glared.

I smiled and then took a bite of my muffin.

While I was chewing, she pried the box open and, in true Rosalee fashion, let out a dramatic gasp.

She loved it. I had known it the minute I’d picked it up from the jeweler that she would, but she had no idea how much I was going to love seeing her wear it.

Rosalee was as girlie as little girls came. She loved dresses, purses, nail polish, and all things lip gloss. But the one thing she loved more than anything else was jewelry. She didn’t have her ears pierced yet, but the child had a full assortment of clip-ons, bracelets, and necklaces. All of which were cheap costume jewelry she’d picked out herself.

But this… This was real. And for the way it made my chest tense, it was almost too real.

“It’s a necklace!” she exclaimed as though I hadn’t been the one to give her the gift.

I stood from my chair and walked around the table. “Do you remember me telling you how I named you after Grandma Rosalee because she was my mom and very special to me?”

She nodded eagerly.

“Well, I wanted you to have more than just her name.”

She gasped again. “This is Grandma Rosalee’s necklace?”

My gut wrenched, and I clenched my teeth, looking away to hide my anger.

I hadn’t thought about Hadley much over the years. Not surprisingly, the cops had never found her, and if I was being honest, I didn’t care if they ever did. The fiery hate I had for that woman was only tolerable because of the way I loved our daughter. No. Strike that. My daughter. Hadley didn’t factor into any of that.

When Rosalee was three, she’d asked if Alejandra was her mommy after watching some silly cartoon on her iPad. It had broken my fucking heart, because not only did she not have a mother, I didn’t even have an explanation for why.

The truth—Your mommy was a selfish bitch who didn’t care about anyone but herself so she abandoned you and never looked back—seemed a tad harsh for a child. So I went with a slightly gentler approach and told her, “Well, there are all kind of families in the world. Some kids have two daddies, some have two mommies, and some have a mommy and a daddy, but the extra special ones? They just have a daddy who loves them double as much.”