Show Me the Way (Fight for Me #1)(25)

Rex’s place had been entirely renovated. The floors were a gorgeous, shiny wood, and the white crown molding lining the ceilings matched the mantel and hearth of the fireplace, which was the focal point of the living room. A big television hung on the wall above, and a brown leather sectional sat in the middle of the room.

And the kitchen.

Good God.

The kitchen.

It was a dream with its butcher block island, huge oven, and farm-style sink. That small table that was my vantage through the window was nestled in the middle of the two rooms.

“This is unbelievable.”

Suddenly, I was remembering Lillith telling me how he’d grown a small construction company into the biggest contractor in the area.

I spun around. “You did this?”

Discomfort rippled across his gorgeous face, something humble and vulnerable showing through the rigid veneer. “It’s kind of what I do.”

“You definitely do a good job of it.” I didn’t mean to whisper it, didn’t mean to get locked in his stare, didn’t mean for my mouth to go dry, or my belly to tumble and twist and flip with the most foolish kind of butterflies.

Because his jaw clenched, and his spine went rigid with my compliment.

Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I forced myself to turn away and take a breath. To get myself together. I set the pie on the counter and turned back around. “I’m sorry to barge in the way I did. I just wanted to say thank you. I really hope you enjoy the pie. I know my grandma would have wanted you to have it.”

I started to make my escape, when Frankie snagged my pinky finger in her tiny fist, her voice just as excited as ever. “You wants to see my room?”

My eyes darted to Rex.

That same anger from the first day, the anger I couldn’t make sense of, the anger that seemed barely contained, flamed in his eyes. Glints of fire beneath the ornate pendant lights.

I could barely force out the words. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea right now. I think it’s past your bedtime.”

“Oh, oh, I know. You can reads me my bedtime story. How’s that sound? You wanna read with me? Can she, Daddy?” She was grinning at her dad, one hundred percent oblivious to the sudden rage I could see crawl just beneath the surface of his tanned skin, the muscles ticking as he stared me down.

“I—”

“Oh, please, please, please.”

I looked at Rex for help, already knowing I was so far out of bounds. My mission taking me too deep into enemy territory, and I’d tripped a bomb.

But somehow, he softened when he looked down at her. As if the little hurricane was his calm. “Five minutes, Frankie Leigh, then lights out.”

“All right, Daddy. Five minutes,” she promised with a resolute nod. She turned and hauled me toward the hall that opened right between the living room and kitchen, just on the other side of the table.

I stumbled along behind her, chancing a glance over my shoulder to look at her father.

Fear.

It was so blatant beneath that hard, rigid, beautiful exterior that it clamped down on my chest, a fist on my heart.

The terror in his expression tore through me like a storm.

Whipping and rending.

I pried my gaze away and followed Frankie into her room, wondering what on earth I’d actually hoped I’d achieve when I’d decided to bake him a pie.

What I knew for sure was this wasn’t it. Not that it mattered. That fist on my heart squeezed with soft affection when Frankie turned around and lifted her arms out to her sides.

Pure pride as she offered me all the pink.

“You likes it? My daddy let me helps him paint all the walls, and he took me to the store and let me picks my blankies and my drawers and ever’fing! Did you knows I been painting, and I’m gonna be a painter? My grammy says so.”

My gaze traced the walls. Walls that were pink. More than pink. Wisped with the hints of fairy tales and happily ever afters, the faintest outlines of rainbows and unicorns and princesses lost in the strokes of color.

Delicately.

Carefully.

Beautifully.

At the bottom of one wall was a mess of color, choppy strokes and splotches so clearly added by a tiny hand.

Oh my God. Who was this man?

Frankie dropped to her knees in front of a bookcase and pulled free a thin, worn book, waving it in the air. “This one’s my favorite.”

“Stellaluna?” I asked, a small smile ticking up at the corner of my mouth when I saw the adorable bat on the cover, the story totally unfamiliar.

“Uh-huh.”

She scrambled onto her bed. “You reads it.”

I knelt by the edge of her bed. “Okay.”

I opened it and began to read, that lump in my throat growing as I read each page. There was something about the way Frankie listened, quieted and subdued, glued to the words that tumbled from my tongue as I read about a baby bat that’d lost its mother and was raised by a mother bird, only to be reunited with its mother at the end, remaining friends with the birds who’d welcomed it to their nest.

Why did I feel like I might cry when I finished the last page? It was a happy ending, after all. But it was still there, heavy in the air when I looked back at Frankie. She had her sheet pulled up to her chin and was clutching the material. “Did you know I lost my mommy, too?”

She whispered it like a secret.