Chapter 17

Now that Poppy's attackers have been found, my job description looks slightly different. At first, I planned to catch a flight to Italy and get Briar out of that house. But this morning, I got word from Rossi that he and Briar will be flying to Beckett's place in South Carolina tonight and will likely land sometime in the morning hours.

Even though my official work for Walker and Poppy is done, I couldn't stand seeing them both so down. So, earlier today, I showed up on campus, practically kidnapped Poppy, but in a not-creepy way, and I promised her that I was not going to let Walker's uncle force either Briar or Walker into a marriage that they didn't want. I have enough dirt on that motherfucker to bury him. And now that I've turned in every bit of evidence I have on not only him, but also the Romanos to my boss, they are both pretty much fucked. But Poppy doesn't know that I'm an agent. So, to her, I had to make it sound like I could blackmail them into letting Walker and Gia go.

Tomorrow, I'm due at Beckett's house for the wedding to make sure nothing crazy happens. Even though I'm shocked as shit that he actually hired me to work as security at a wedding where no one but immediate family was invited. Not to mention, I figured Enzo had blacklisted me from anyone and everyone.

Tonight though, I have nothing but time on my hands. So, here I am, about to pull into a property I can't bring myself to sell, yet I've avoided it for six years—the home I shared with my wife before she died.

As I turn, getting closer to it, my chest tightens. Sidewalks line the streets, and I hear Cami's voice talking about how great it would be to raise children here. She was newly a nurse, and I was weeks away from being an agent. We had the whole world in front of us, and I don't think either of us could wait.

Pulling into the driveway, I gaze up at the blue house. The tree on the front lawn still has the swing hanging from it. All because she saw it in another person's yard, and right away, she knew we needed one. I teased her that she probably wouldn't even swing from it, yet on my next day off, there I was, building her a damn swing.

For years, I've paid someone to mow the lawn and keep the place running. I can't bear the thought of even being here. Yet here I am, suddenly brave enough to do it.

Shifting the truck into park, I give the place one last glance before I kill the engine and push the door open. Slowly, my feet carry me to the front steps until I'm jiggling the key in the door before it opens up.

The first thing I see is Cami's rain jacket hanging next to mine. Underneath it, I see a pair of bright yellow rain boots that I swear she only wore maybe five times. A sharp pain shoots through my chest, and when I look around, seeing our wedding picture on the wall, it only gets worse.

She stares back at me, smiling the way she did only when she was looking at me. I never deserved that look, but, God, I fucking loved it.

The smell of her is gone. I guess when six years pass, that's what happens. I don't feel her here the way I did when I had to live here the first few months after she died. I damn near lost my mind, being in our house when she wasn't here. Every painted wall, every picture frame, every piece of art and lamp … she had picked out. It wasn't my house anymore. It wasn't ours either.

My stomach churns, but I push myself up the stairs. Knowing that if I never face my sorrows, I'll never be able to move on past this part of my life right here.

For so many years, I've been running. I thought that if I worked long hours, harder missions, maybe … I could keep myself stable enough not to fall apart.

All of that running is catching up to me now. Only this time, I somehow feel a little stronger about handling it.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I glance into our bedroom. The baby-blue sheer curtains make the room look brighter, just like she said they would. It looks like a post right off of Pinterest because that's exactly where she got it from.

I look at the bed and picture us lying under the covers on a rainy Sunday. She's laughing about something stupid I said, and I tickle her, knowing how much she hates it. Or how she came out of our bathroom, a pregnancy test in hand and tears in her eyes before she leaped into my arms. She couldn't wait to be a mom, and even though I was scared to death, I couldn't wait to have kids with her.

Slowly, I back out of our bedroom and gaze at the closed door across the hall. A room I haven't been in since the day she died. I've tried to block it out of my brain that it's here, but I know that isn't fair to anyone.

I take a few steps before reaching my arm out. My hand hovers on the doorknob. I haven't been in this room in six years. No one has. Yet for some reason, reasons beyond my control, I feel like I need to go in now.

I stand here, frozen and terrified to open the door. Because once I do, I have to acknowledge that the life I was so excited to have will never be.

Pushing the door open, I feel a stabbing sensation in my chest as I look around the nursery Cami so carefully designed. The white crib, dresser, and changing table I put together during a break I had from work. The circular pink rug that has the alphabet on it and the rocker in the corner.

I had three weeks off, and I don't think that woman let me sit still for more than ten minutes at a time. My honey-do list was a mile long, but I didn't care. Hell, if it had been ten miles long, I would have done each task with a smile on my face.

Light-blue letters hang above the crib. They spell Neveah. A name Cami and I picked out together one morning, lying in bed. She had rattled off countless names. I didn't hate them, but they weren't … her name. But when she said Neveah, I knew.

That was her name.

Some days, I miss that baby so much that I think the pain might kill me. I never met her, and yet she's a part of me. A part of my wife. She's my daughter. My baby girl, whom I will never get to watch grow up. She must have been way too good for this dark world, just like her mom.

That's what I tell myself every day, even if it doesn't make the pain any less.

Moving on from them hasn't been easy. Or it wasn't until Dove landed in my life. And suddenly, I feel my heart beating the same way it did when I first saw Cami.

But every time I imagine a life with Briar James, my mind travels to my wife. And my baby.

How hurt are they, looking down at me and thinking I've forgotten about them? Do they hate me for it? Do they feel betrayed?

The guilt from those thoughts alone makes me pull away from Briar, time and time again.

I know one thing to be true though. I'm in love with her. And I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure she gets out of this shit with Enzo safely.

I might not be her future, but I'm sure as hell going to make sure she has one. Even if I'm not in it.

Walking over to the rocker, I run my hand over it, thinking back to the day when we went shopping for the perfect rocking chair for the baby, and I close my eyes.

"Nope, not this one," Cami said, quickly pushing herself out of the wooden chair. "My ass would be asleep in, like, three seconds. That is so not comfortable."

She walked over to a white glider chair with a cloth cushion and sat down. "This one is way too soft. There's, like … no support."

I watched her, an amused look on my face. "I'm going to call you Goldilocks because the way you're talking about those chairs, you're fresh out of that book."

"Has to be right," she said with a shrug. "When she's screaming her head off all day and night, we'll need a magic chair to lure her back to sleep."

That got my attention. "Day and night?" I frowned, rearing my head back. "How often is this little shit going to cry?"

"No way to know for sure." She shrugged, walking past me before she shot me a glare. "And don't call our baby a shithead. It's a girl, so that means she'll be an angel, like her mama." She winked.

Even though she meant it as a joke, I never told her she couldn't have been more right. That woman was an angel.

She walked by a few others, not giving them a second look. But finally, she came to one and stopped moving. It was a wooden glider with a matching ottoman. Slowly, she lowered herself onto it, keeping her hand on her swollen belly. She closed her eyes for a second and breathed in a deep breath.

"Oh, yeah. This is the one." She smiled. "Load 'er up, Daddy. It's coming home with us!"

Slowly, I open my tear-filled eyes, wiping my lashes with the sleeve of my hoodie. Sometimes, when I have those daydreams, it's almost as if she's right here. I feel her for a moment. Then, the moment ends, and my pain starts all over again.

Something moves outside the window, and I take a few steps closer, narrowing my eyes. On the branch of the red maple tree closest to the glass—the same red maple holding the swing that Cami insisted we have in our yard—sits a dove. A single dove, seemingly looking into the house.

For a moment, I just stare at it. We only got the chance to live here for eight months. And in those eight months, I saw many different types of birds.

Never a dove though.

I open the window, expecting it to fly away. Only it doesn't. It simply tilts its head to the side and sways on the branch as a small gust of wind blows through. After about a minute or two, it turns away from me before flying away, out of sight.

Of all things.

A dove.