Dirty Secret (The Burke Brothers #1)(37)
Author: Emma Hart

Hopefully.

I stand slowly and tiptoe into her room, dipping to grab her bunny off my bed. I ease her into her crib, holding in my exhale when she goes down without stirring. I spin on my toes and start her CD player, letting Conner’s voice fill the room, and back out slowly.

Slowly and silently.

I pull the door shut behind me, but before it even clicks, she screams.

I yank it toward me anyway and rest my forehead against the door. “Please, Mila,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut. “Mama needs sleep.”

“No, no! Dadda, Mama, Dadda!” she sobs.

I thump the door with my forehead in annoyance because, goddammit, now I’m exhausted and crying.

And I give up. I absolutely give up.

I walk into my room, grab my phone from under my pillow, and dial Conner’s number. I press Redial until he picks up.

“Hello?” he groans groggily.

“Conner?”

“Sofie? What’s wrong?”

“She won’t sleep,” I say thickly. “She’s been up all night, crying for you. I can’t . . .”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath. A tear falls anyway, and I hear movement at his end of the line.

“Give me five minutes and I’ll be there. Okay?”

I sniff again and nod.

“Okay?” he pushes.

“Okay!” I half-yell through my tears.

I hang up and drop my phone on the floor. Hell, she hasn’t slept this bad in months. And that’s saying something, considering I didn’t get more than four hours of sleep a night until she was eighteen months old.

I’m angry and relieved at the same time. I shouldn’t have called him, because I did this for so long, and I did it alone. I held it together every night. I didn’t break, I didn’t call for help, I didn’t do anything but fight through it.

I don’t want him to see me as weak for calling him.

But we all have a breaking point. This, now, tonight is mine. The last two weeks have been so heavy and emotional, and I just don’t have the damn energy to fight anymore.

Right this second, I don’t have the energy to fight Mila. I don’t have the energy to grieve for my father or process every crappy corner of this damn town. I don’t have the energy to rebuild a lifelong friendship, and I sure as hell don’t have time to fight Conner Burke.

I push myself up off the bed with the last of my wavering strength and go into Mila’s room. She’s standing at the side of her crib, her face bright red, tears staining her cheeks. I pick her up and hold her to me. Guilt filters through me at letting her get so upset, but I just did what I thought I was right.

It’s hard to use that as justification when it seems like everything I think is right is actually wrong.

“Daddy’s coming,” I say soothingly into her ear. “He’ll be here soon.”

Mila’s door opens and Conner steps through. He’s wearing a Dirty B. sweater and sweatpants, old sneakers are on his feet, and his hair is sticking up everywhere. If I wasn’t so damn tired I’d be laughing at him right now.

He walks to us and takes Mila from me without a word. She grabs his neck and burrows into him so far she may as well be trying to get under his skin.

I step back, but Conner reaches out and pulls me into his other side. His arm is strong and steady around my shoulders, his fingers stroking the bare skin of my shoulder. With every touch, a little of the tension knotting my muscles leaves me. He presses his lips to the top of my head.

“Go to bed, princess,” he whispers. “Go and sleep.”

My mouth opens to protest, but before I speak I realize the futility of it. He can look after her, I know he can, and I’m almost asleep on my feet.

“Go.” He lets go of me and pushes me toward the door.

I nod and pad my way into my room. Climbing onto the softness of my mattress and tugging the covers over me, I close my eyes.

I scramble on the floor next to me for my shorts, rubbing my eyes, and tug them up my legs. I glance in the mirror as I pass. Ass: covered. Awesome.

I work my hair into a topknot as I walk downstairs. The quiet hum of Peppa Pig fills the house, and I pad quietly into the front room.

My heart skips a beat, my stomach flips, and I stop breathing all at the same time.

Conner and Mila are curled together in the corner of the sofa. She’s gripping his shirt, fast asleep, and he’s resting his head on the back of the sofa. His eyes are half shut, and I lean against the doorframe for a moment.

Just to look at them. Just to look at this guy, one of America’s biggest heartthrobs, tattooed and built, snuggled up to this tiny little girl, who’s holding on to him like her life depends on it.

I swallow and rest the side of my face against the wood of the frame, still gazing at them. A small smile curls my lips, because it’s a beautiful sight. A memory I know I’ll keep forever.

Conner turns his face to look at me and gives me a small smile. “Hey,” he whispers.

“Hey,” I reply. “You wanna put her down?”

He looks down and nods. “I can’t feel my damn arm.” He laughs quietly, easing himself up with her still in his arms.

She doesn’t stir, even as he goes upstairs and opens her door.

He lays her down in her crib, and she reaches an arm up, grabbing for his shirt.

“Take it off,” I whisper quickly. “Let her hug it.”

He quirks an eyebrow at me, but he gives his T-shirt to her, and she snuggles into it immediately.

“So much for not being shirtless,” he mutters.

“Eh, you have a sweatshirt,” I throw back, preceding him downstairs.

He laughs behind me and the sound is like music. He has the best damn singing voice I’ve ever heard, but his laughter is better than that. It’s warm and rich and deep, the kind of sound that tingles through your veins and back again.

It’s doing that now—the tingling. My whole body is humming from hearing him, being close to him, hell, from talking to him.

“Coffee?” I ask, my mouth dry.

He shakes his head and steps toward me. Then he kisses me, softly, just once. But it lingers. And time stops, the world hovering in stillness for a long moment.

“I’m sorry.” The husky tone of his voice vibrates through me. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

“It’s okay,” I reply softly. “I deserved it.”

“No, no, Sof, you didn’t.” He cups my cheeks, his fingers rough and callused from playing the guitar, and tilts my face up to his. “You didn’t deserve that at all. I might not forgive you, but that doesn’t mean I have the right to disrespect you.”