You Can Count On Me (Christmas Daddies, #2)

by Fae Quin

Everyone in our family knew Mama read some real spicy unhinged shit, with like dragon-men, mafia bosses, and probably alien dicks.

Ayoooooooo

“Uncle Trent is listening to a—” Becca snagged my phone out of my hand before I could stop her, and her eyes narrowed as she flipped to the book description page. “—A spicy, queer, action-packed werewolf romance.” “Kill me,” I hid my face in my hands. “Please just kill me.” “He’s blushing!” Becca cheered gleefully.

He stared at me real hard, all pretty green eyes full of stars, and he said, “I wish you were my dad.” My heart about broke. “You got a dad, sweet pea.” “No,” Bubba shook his head, snuggling his stuffed chicken into his arms as he stared at me all serious, way too serious for a kid his age. “I got a pops,” he waited a moment so I would get what he was saying. My heart about stuttered out of my chest. “I wish I had a dad too.”

I couldn’t help but fall in love all over again. Miles was…amazing. Wonderful. Sweet. Serious. Kind. Loyal.

Mistakes are just lessons. My own eyes were suspiciously wet too so I squeezed them tightly shut and nodded. “How’d you get to be so wise, anyhow?” I asked,

“I just wanna let someone else be strong for a change.” “Please,” I begged, pulling back so I could catch his gaze with my own. “Let me.”

“Let me carry the weight for you. Let me be in charge. Let me hold you. Let me fuck you. Talk to me when you need to—pick me. Let me in. Let me fight your battles. Let me stand beside you. Let me share your secrets. Let me keep you safe.” I swallowed. “Please—” My voice cracked. “I’ve never felt the way I do for you, and it’s scary and wonderful—but god. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” When

“I knew it!” Bubba crowed, pumping his fists in the air, then looping around the room in a chicken-like victory dance, all pointy elbows and knees. “I freaking knew it! Triles is real!”

Not the ship name jajajaja

“How long does your heart need?” She stroked my arm soothingly, her hands so much smaller than my own. “How long are you gonna tell yourself you’re not worthy of the kinda love you want? How long until you’re ready to admit that you’re the one that’s been running, all this time. Not everyone else. How long till you choose to stay, Miles Johnson?”

“But…why did you…I don’t—why didn’t you tell me?” “Because if I told you that,” Mama said, squaring her shoulders, “I’d also have to tell you that that was the night your daddy found out he was sick. That he made me promise not to tell you—any of you. He begged me—and I loved him so much, loved you kids so much I said yes. Even though it killed me inside to do it. Even though a part of me died every single day I withheld the truth—” Mama’s eyes were bright with sorrow as a tear dashed down her cheek. And I realized, finally, what she was getting at. A mistake. His mistake. Hers too. “He asked me to lie, and I did it.” My knees threatened to buckle, but I stood my ground. “I don’t understand—” “It was selfish.” She squeezed her eyes shut and another tear spilled free. “Charles was a good man. Generous. Soft-spoken. He laughed—lord, did he laugh—at every goddamn thing. He found joy in the littlest things.” My

“The farm was yours, from the day you were born. We just didn’t know it yet. I never meant to make you feel like you were the last choice. You were the only choice.”

“Sometimes…I look at him—” She sighed and bit her lip. “And he’s got the same look in his eyes that you do. Like he’s lost and doesn’t know where to go.”

“You’ve seemed so sad these past few years. Lonely. You stopped coming home, and I thought—maybe…meeting someone would help? That you would smile again. That it would reach your eyes, the way it used to. I should’ve realized you were hurting and it had nothing to do with who—or how—” That was side-eye if I’d ever seen it. “You dated.” I shook my head to clear it. “Miles looked like he needed a little saving himself—and I figured you were the only man for the job.”

“Uhhhh,” I squirmed, then laughed, covering my face with both hands. “I’m kinda…” “Kinda?” “In love with him?” My words were muffled. “And by kinda, I mean—totally, completely, utterly in love with him. Stupid in love. Ridiculously in love. Like—I would literally kiss the ground he walked on, kind of in love. The kind in movies, and books—and audiobooks. The stupid kind. That makes no sense—but makes all the sense at the same time—”

But I realized now—being broken didn’t mean I was unworthy. It didn’t mean I was untrustworthy. It didn’t mean I wouldn’t be a good dad. It didn’t mean I couldn’t be a good partner. I would make mistakes—like leaving my coat and phone back on the coat rack at Mama’s house—lots of them.

Only home wasn’t the house—either of them. Home was sunshine, laughter, and broad shoulders. It was forty kinds of cocoa, football reruns, and blanket forts. It was new discoveries, heated kisses, and shared heartache. It was being young again. Free. Home was sharing burdens, as partners, because that’s what partners do. Trent Montgomery was my home. He was real. He was strong. And sweet. And capable. Reliable. Trustworthy. Kind.

His honeyed eyes twinkled with mirth, his eyebrow cocked. They said, whatever you want, baby. They said, anything. They said, anything at all. And I believed them.