Jo-Jo: I haven’t heard from you in months. Are you alright?

Abby Girl: New phone. Who is this?

It’s amazing how one of the best nights of my life could turn to complete crap in less than twenty-four hours. It started that very night when Joey and I got into an argument. We’d argued before, but it was always just good-natured banter, for the most part. But this was different. This was about my daughter. And I was not going to budge on anything when it came to Zoey.

It had been a long week with Joey at the house, Joey in class, Joey watching my every move. Joey and his gun—did he even care how much I hated them? I knew it was to keep us safe. But as I trudged through the last week, things just kept getting worse. I sat at my desk pouring over a stack of papers. I was way behind on grading already due to the events over the weekend. I was better than this, I knew, but Joey had disrupted everything.

Sunday had resulted in us all falling asleep in my queen size bed, with Joey’s arms tucked around Zoey. I didn’t mind; it had been a long day of the most intense stress I’d ever had—well, second to when I found Evan, but thankfully my brain had seen fit to block most of that from my memory. Well, it tried, anyway. Joey hadn’t insisted on us all in the bedroom, but he’d followed, and I’d let him. I supposed that was my biggest mistake.

We both trudged through class. It was hard to concentrate, and I wasn’t at my best, knowing Zoey was at daycare and wondering if Malachai knew, and would try to take her again, even though I knew the white, unmarked car that followed us was for a good reason.

Monday night, though? That’s when everything went to hell.

“I need space,” I told Joey quietly as we suffered through dinner. “Zoey and I will just retire early. There’s spare sheets and a blanket that fit the couch in the closet behind the front door.”

Joey’s fork had clanged loudly as it hit his plate of take-out he’d so kindly picked up after class. “You’re letting this bother you too much. You need to give the kid time in her room—you’re just stressing her out.”

“Excuse me?” I had looked at him sharply. “She’s my daughter,” I had insisted, biting back the words she has just been kidnapped. “I think I know what’s best for her.”

“You can’t let her sleep in your bed forever,” he mumbled as he gathered up his plates.

To my right, Zoey happily banged on her food tray in her high chair. She didn’t seem any worse for wear, and had been her happy, bubbly self since I picked her up from daycare. He was right, I knew that now, but then—the stress of the last few days had turned me into one crabby, hormonal bitch.

I greatly regret what I had said next.

“You think because I let you in my bed, and that Officer Knowles demanded I need ‘protection’, that this was going to be a nightly occurrence?” I hissed at him, cornered in front of the sink and partially out of view of Zoey. “You thought wrong, Joey Harrison. You can’t just play house with me under court orders and act like you get free pickings of the merchandise.” Even as I said it, I knew I was a dirty liar. He was so close to me that my body thrummed in response. What was wrong with me, that I craved his touch even when I was mad at him?

He had stepped back, the hurt clear on his face. He didn’t even bother to mask it, as I noticed he often did.

Zoey was all I had left of Evan, and I couldn’t bear for her to be apart from me. Teaching was torture enough. But did I say that? No. Because I’m an idiot. Instead, I just let my mouth do whatever it wanted, and I made everything worse.

“‘Play house’? Abby, I didn’t want that to happen at all.” He raised his hand to touch my face, and I swatted it away.

“Furthermore,” I interrupted as he trailed off, “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your hands and other body parts away from me for the time being. Malachai is still out there, and until they capture him, we need to stay focused.” I was right, damn it, I was right!

He had sighed and nodded, and thus commenced the following five days of awkwardness where we had to live together, but mutually ignored each other.

The only time we ever spoke was about Zoey. He asked permission so often that I eventually snapped at him and told him to just take care of her if he felt so inclined. Again, he said nothing, and did whatever I asked. He changed diapers and handed her to me when it got late enough that we could retreat behind my bedroom door.

I marked off the last few papers, entered the last of the grades, and locked my office door behind me.

It was Friday, but instead of a relaxing weekend in front of me, I was a bundle of tense nerves. My neck and back ached to the point where walking was difficult. I couldn’t even think about dinner, but as soon as I walked in the door, I knew I didn’t need to.

“You cooked?” I asked Joey, blinking, smelling the meaty tomato sauce wafting through the house. I set my bag by the door and crept closer to the stove. A pan of noodles, covered with sauce and sprinkled with white cheese, sat steaming on the stove. “Ziti?”

“I remembered you liked it. I’m shit at cooking, but I hope you enjoy it.”

I gave him a smile. “Thank you.”

“Mommy!” Zoey called from her blanket on the kitchen floor where she was playing with a wooden puzzle.

I scooped her up and put her in the high chair. “Uncle Joey made dinner. Are you ready?”

She clapped her hands.

The ziti had been wonderful, even better than my own. “Where did you learn to cook like this?” I asked Joey as he took my plate.

He grinned. “My mother gave me some recipes.”

“How is she holding up without you? Did you tell her what’s going on?”

“She knows a little. Dad knows more. They aren’t happy—my mother may have mentioned I was ‘living in sin’ at one point—but they understand.” He rolled up his sleeves and started on the dishes.

I jumped up. “You don’t have to do that.”

He threw me a look. “I’m playing house.”

That stung.

“Besides,” he added, “I’m almost done anyway.” He turned and looked at Zoey, whose entire face demonstrated her messy massacre of the baked ziti. “You need a bath, little miss.” He laughed at her, but gave me a look.

“Go ahead.” Reluctantly, I agreed and bit my tongue from asking if he even knew the first thing about bathing toddlers. At times it was like trying to wrestle a wet cat that bites way harder than it scratches. After this week, however, and as much as I loved Zoey, I had too much to do for tomorrow’s class to worry about cleaning up with more than a few wet wipes.

After Joey whisked my daughter away, I cleaned up the high chair and the table, then spread out to lesson plan. Someday I’ll have an office at home, I thought hopefully.

In a matter of minutes, their giggles and delighted screeches could be heard well outside the bathroom door. I’d never heard Zoey so happy as she was playing in the bath, and it was hard to plan for my lecture on antebellum America for next week.

Despite my better judgement, curiosity killed the cat, and I decided to peek in on them. I eased the bathroom door open a few inches and saw Joey, leaning over the tub, sleeves still pulled up to his elbows, but the material was clearly soaked to his shoulders. His brown hair was damp as well, covered in a pile of bubbles as Zoey squealed with happiness at patting them on his head. He laughed and splashed her right back.

I rushed back to my grading, feeling like an intruder spying on their private happy moment.

Evan had never wanted much to do with Zoey—of course, she’d been too little, only three months old when he’d left us. I swallowed hard as I tried to concentrate on my notes.

Twenty minutes later, the bathroom door shut, and I hear Zoey babbling in her mostly incoherent toddler language as Joey told her it was time for bed. Their voices faded down the hall.

Joey reappeared in the kitchen with a small white device in his hand. He sat it down without a word, and I looked up at him. Wet hair, the front of his plaid button-up shirt soaked, he looked like he’d been standing out in the rain; if it had rained soapy bubbles.

“What is this?” I picked up the device and turned it around to see a black and white screen that revealed Zoey in her crib.

“Turn the dial on the side,” he said softly. I did and heard her babbling prattle, loud and clear.

“I have a baby monitor,” I said, looking up at him.

“I know, but I thought you’d rest better if you could actually see her.” He shrugged. “So, I solved the problem.”

“Joey, I don’t know what to say.”

He waved me away. “You look exhausted in class; we can all tell. Jason asked me today if you were dying.”

“Jason? Really?” I thought about that misogynistic and closed-minded student. He had a lot to learn this term, if his paper on ‘those blacks’ was any indication. I sighed. “Why were you talking to Jason?”

He shrugged. “He needs a lot of help.”

“Don’t write his papers for him.” I glared up at him.

“Pfft. I can barely write my own with you distracting me every day.”

“Me?” I stood and piled my notes together. It had been a long day, and I was tired. “How am I distracting?”

He gaped at me as I turned around. “Seriously? You don’t know?”

“Know what?” I bit my lip. I had an idea, but he was standing there looking sexy and I couldn’t resist being coy at the moment.

“You’re the giver of wood, Abby Jameson.”

“Joey!” I tried to act shocked, but I felt my cheeks heat. I didn’t even object that he’d used my maiden name. I had only been married less than a year, after all. Plus, this curvy girl felt flattered as hell. “How can you say that?”

“It’s true,” he began, and started unbuttoning his shirt. “Say what you want but you’re sexy as hell.” He pulled his shirt off his shoulders.

Damn, he looked better in the light of the kitchen, even better than the night we had shared each other’s company in my foyer and finally, my bedroom. I blushed, my cheeks heating. He wasn’t Marines fit or cut anymore, and the few months he’d been back enjoying the comforts of home had taken a toll on abs that now barely protruded.

Still, he was a piece of work, and I felt it as my entire body responded to such a handsome man. Every bit of me knew exactly what was under every piece of clothing, and I wanted it, all of it. I wrapped my hands around the baby monitor, where I could see, and faintly hear, my daughter snoring peacefully.

Joey had wandered into the living room and was rummaging in his bag for a clean shirt. I followed him.

He frowned at me. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Oh, I don’t think you need that.” I motioned to the white shirt in his hands. “Or pants, for that matter.”

He licked his lips, and there it was, that hungry look again. “You sure?”

I gripped the baby monitor and fled away from him, back to my bedroom.

He followed.