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

by Fae Quin

You think you’ve seen everything by the time you hit thirty-seven. But then a familiar tiny blond eleven-year-old shows up at your house just after dark, wielding a baseball bat in one hand and an inhaler in the other. And he threatens you with it—the bat, not the inhaler—until you agree to take his dad on a date, and you realize you were wrong. You definitely haven’t seen everything. Nope. Not even close.

There was so much I needed to figure out, but that was okay. It was all okay. Because Trent was sunshine, laughter, and broad shoulders. And he might be strong enough to carry us both.

Rooster was solid and warm. Cinnamon sugar. He smelled like cinnamon sugar. I held on tight. And the way he melted against me had my heart racing and my toes curling in my boots.

“I think Pops loves you, but I think you love him more. And maybe now you’re around I don’t have to protect him anymore. You can do it for me.”

“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?”

The one where he searched the room, scanning objects, clinging to reality because the demons were close and he needed to breathe. Lately his eyes would land on mine. He’d settle the moment he saw me standing close. My heart ached at the thought.

“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—”

Love was vulnerability. It was trusting someone to love you after showing them the parts of yourself you’d never been able to embrace.

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.

I’d thought I’d seen everything by the time I hit thirty-seven. But Bubba and his baseball bat—which was now mine, courtesy of his Christmas present to me—had taught me something different. I’d

learned a lot of things this past year. Patience for one. Perseverance. But most important of all, I’d learned that Paxton Montgomery was a wise motherfucker.

Because falling for Miles Johnson had changed me from the inside out. And falling in love wasn’t scar...

Love was patience. Love was imperfection. Love felt like…falling knowing there was somewhere soft to land.