“I need to order something else, please,” I tell the pink-haired bartender.

“What do you need?”

Scanning the menu, I rattle off, “Fried Pickle Spears. Dixie Wrecked Taters. Spicy Mighty Meaty Chili. Holy Guacamole burger done medium. Lone Star Tex Melt burger, same temp. I don’t see just a regular burger on here for kids.”

“We’re twenty-one and older but I can make you a regular burger.”

“Great. Probably well done. And an order of fries.” I tap my lip, staring at the choices. “Plantains! One of those. And one more order of tater tots. Thank you.”

While I wait I have a glass of wine because my pulse is not at all normal.

I can’t believe I asked him that.

I can’t believe he said yes.

Soon enough I’m grabbing up plastic bags jam-packed with hot food, sliding my hands through the loops so I can grab my keys and look at my phone for the address Justin texted me.

As I pass the host stand, only one girl I told off is still there. Upon spotting me she hastily averts her eyes to the seating chart.

I get along with most people. And I can give you slack if you need it. Lord knows in my business I’ve done that with about a hundred brides who lost their shit on wedding day. But if you’re an asshole for no good reason, I will let you know. Somebody’s got to.

One of the things I love about Atlanta is there’s always somewhere to park. At his building I snatch up the food and kick my car door closed with my heel, trying to act cool and collected as I head inside. A security guard looks up. Slowing my steps, I offer, “I’m here to see Justin Cocker.”

He smiles, “Ms. Rothdale?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“He’s expecting you. Go right on up. He lives in the penthouse.”

I mutter, “Of course he does,” then call over my shoulder, “Thank you!” on my way to the elevator. Inside, my pulse climbs with the numbers until there are no more left.

Now that I’m facing his front door I almost turn around. But the faint sound of crying comes through and I hurriedly knock, all fear lost as my maternal instincts kick into high gear.

Justin opens the door in a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, holding Hannah to his chest, his large palm on her back as he whispers to her, “I know, Hannah. You’re scared.” He gives me a face that screams help. Dropping the bags onto his hardwood floors, I walk around him to see her face.

“Hi Hannah. I’m Jaimie. You wanna come here?” I open my arms to take her from him. He hands her over like he doesn’t want to, but has no options left.

As I rock her and he picks up the bags, I ask him in a hushed voice, “What happened?”

“She couldn’t find her mother.” Seeing my confusion he explains, “The photographs. I’d had them in a place she couldn’t find. Not on purpose,” he hastily adds.

“Of course not,” I murmur, following him into a modern kitchen with absolutely no color to it whatsoever. So obvious a man lives here. “Do you have any tissue?” He goes to rip off a paper towel. “Anything softer maybe?”

“Oh, right,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. Hannah’s crying is quieter as I rock her, my eyes on his journey to the guest bathroom. He’s barefoot and adorably handsome. I’ve only seen him in suits, and while I love how he looks in them, I think I prefer this.

With her on my hip I search for a glass and fill it with tap water. Justin comes out and runs over. “No! I’ve got a Britta filter. Don’t use tap.” Handing me a wad of toilet paper he takes over pouring.

“Here, Hannah, blow,” I tell her. She does her best, but children this age never know how to really let it all out. “One more time, honey.” She tries again as I tell Justin, “The water isn’t bad here.”

“This is better. She gets the best.” He fills it and goes for another glass. “You want some?”

“Yes, please.”

“You brought food?”

“I brought enough for all of us.”

Relief waves over his gorgeous features as he opens the bags. “We’re starving,” he mutters.

“Hunger might be contributing to this,” I smile, tilting my head toward the little girl in my arms. He blinks at me with tired eyes, relaxes a little and nods.

Heading for his couch I glance to my left, Atlanta sparkling outside incredibly large windows. His kitchen and living room have no separation and with these high ceilings there’s an enormity that might be daunting to a child, at first. Especially since everything is black or cold silver. Even the art is monochromatic. Sitting on his leather couch with Hannah on my lap, I ask him, “How many bedrooms do you have?”

While shoveling food onto actual plates he says, “Two, but one’s an office. Guess I’ll have to change that.”

Tossing a bit of used tissue onto his coffee table, I unravel a bit more and dab her eyes. She’s staring at me like she needs a woman’s touch, but also like she wishes I were someone else, and who can blame her for such a wish? “You miss your mom?”

She nods, sniffling. I glance to the stack of photos pressed against her chest.

“Can I see?”

She holds them out for me and my heart cracks open more with each and every one. “She’s very beautiful.” Hannah nods, her nose and cheeks bright pink. She inherited her father’s coloring, but as a girl who loved her mother more than life itself, I know what she needs to hear. “She looks like you.”

Hannah’s eyes go wide. “Really?”

“Yep. And who’s this?”

Tiny fingers hold up a Pepto Bismol-colored alien who’s seen better days, his fur smashed flat and missing in places. She whispers, “Lou.”

“Hi Lou. Are you Hannah’s guardian angel?”

“He’s my best friend.”

“I can see he loves you very much,” I smile, smoothing back tear-soaked blonde hair from where it sticks to her cheeks. At hearing Justin padding toward us with plates balanced in his arms, I glance over and catch him with an expression on his face that makes my heart skip.