My niece is an angel from heaven who I am privileged to have in my life. I would give her a kidney. I would throw myself in front of a bus or a pack of rabid wolves or a stampede of zombie buffalo for this child. I would take a bullet for this princess who breaks my heart with her smile and heals it up again with her slobbery baby kisses.

But sometimes she’s a real pain in the ass.

Huge.

Enormous.

So large that if she were actually a boil on my backside, I wouldn’t be able to get off this bench to run after her because I would be weighed down by the size of the junk on my trunk.

Thankfully, however, her pain-in-ass-ness if figurative, and I’m able to bolt from my seat, sprint across the wood chips at the toddler playground in the town square, and grab Mercy before she puts a handful of someone else’s melted ice cream cone—currently oozing all over the merry-go-round—into her mouth.

“No, Mercy,” I say for the fifteen thousandth time since my niece spotted the fallen cone, grabbing her pudgy wrist in the nick of time and holding her sticky fingers away from her mouth. “That’s dirty. Yuck.”

“No!” Mercy bellows back, making use of her newest vocabulary word.

“It’s not yours, buddy,” I continue in my calmest tone as I guide her toward the bathrooms. “That’s someone else’s, and it’s dirty.”

“No! No! No!” Mercy wails into my face, the fearsome gleam in her eyes making me laugh even as the moms on the closest bench shoot concerned glances our way.

“You look like you want to take my head off,” I mutter beneath my breath, clinging tight to my niece’s arms as she tries to pull away. “Come on, Mercy. We need to wash hands.”

“No! Noooooooo!” Mercy’s spine arches, and a moment later she goes boneless, melting into a puddle at my feet, facedown in the wood chips.

“Stop it, Mercy, you’re going to scratch your cheeks.”

“Nooooo!” She thrashes like a fish ripped from the cool depths of her rivery home, all outrage and muscle. “No! No! No!”

“Geez, give me a break, kid.” I readjust my grip on her squirming babyness while breaking out in a sweat beneath my shirt.

I would have called it a chilly evening a few minutes ago. But that was before Mercy decided to teach me a lesson in what it takes to win a war of wills with the most stubborn toddler ever born.

Of course, this would never have happened if Rafe hadn’t run off. If he’d stayed, I would be out with him right now, getting busy in a waterfall or at a delightfully creepy drive-in or down by the ocean while the waves make the cliffs vibrate the way he makes my body vibrate, setting me to humming at the perfect frequency.

Instead, I breached his emotional firewall, he ran, and I was therefore on hand to offer to babysit while Emma chairs her wine road event meeting.

Now I’m going to come home with a wood-chip-scratched and splintered-up baby with filthy ice-cream hands, and Emma will never trust me to care for her daughter again.

And why should she?

I’m a wreck. A mess. A formerly together person who is watching my house of cards tumble down around me, marveling that I ever thought I had built something solid.

The softening book sales and lingering ill-will generated by the leaked pictures are symptoms of a deeper problem. I’m the real disease. I’m the fool who thought it would be okay to quit my perfectly decent job managing a well-respected toy store to write full time. I’m the one who spent my first few years of royalty checks on a down payment for a condo in a nice part of Berkeley, naively assuming the checks would keep flowing in.

But there are no guarantees in life, especially a life spent playing pretend for a living. I should have known that. I should have been more careful. I should have kept my steady job and continued to write in my spare time—who cares if that meant I had to write more slowly?

And it’s not just my work life that’s fucked to hell. I should have kept my family at arm’s length and my mother at least a state and a half away. If I had, Mom and I wouldn’t be sniping at each other like I’m sixteen again, and Emma wouldn’t have to learn that I’m shitty with kids and should never be trusted with her loin fruit.

Most importantly, I should have kept my dating life casual. I should have kept things with Rafe fuck-buddy easy, instead of reaching out to probe the soft, vulnerable places beneath his tough guy exterior. Yes, he’s the most fascinating, sexy, confident, magnetic man I’ve met in years—maybe ever—and yes, the chinks in his armor make him even more irresistible, but that’s no excuse for playing with fire.

I should be glad he’s gone.

Grateful that he saved me from myself.

Instead, as I wrestle Mercy from the ground, getting kicked hard in the stomach as thanks for my efforts to keep her germ-free, all I can think about is how much she reminds me of him. No matter how much I would like for her to be a more passive and agreeable child at this precise moment, I love this part of her.

I love her spit and fire. I love her fierce will and her passion for exploration and her determination to discover every inch of a world that ignites her curiosity.

And maybe I was starting to love that about Rafe, too, just a little.

Maybe more than a little. Maybe enough that writing that email a couple days back was a hell of a lot harder than I expected it to be. Maybe enough that I should pack up and get out of here before he comes back…

“I should,” I tell Mercy when we’re finally inside the remarkably clean park bathroom and I’ve got her hands soaped up and under the warm water. “I should go home before it’s too late. Hiding isn’t solving anything, anyway. I’m worse off than when I came here to get away from it all.”

Mercy looks up at me, blue eyes wide and curious. “Ba?”

I sigh. “No, I didn’t bring the ball. I’m a loser. I’m sorry.”

Mercy giggles. “Ba!”

I shake my head. “No ball.”

The baby laughs again, thrusting her hands into the air, sending water droplets flying.

“Well, I’m glad someone’s amused by my poor life choices.” I grin as I hand her a paper towel and she jumps up and down with it, spinning in a circle with it held overhead like an umbrella, turning it into a toy because that’s what kids do. They play when they should be taking care of business, and turn business into play.

Maybe that’s my problem.

I never grew up. Not all the way. Not the way a person is supposed to, where they gain maturity and realize that not everything in life is a toy.

People aren’t toys.

Penises aren’t toys.

“Well, that’s not entirely true,” I mutter to myself as I open the door to the bathroom and Mercy toddles outside ahead of me.

Penises are more like toys than a lot of other things. Penises are always up for a good time, don’t take themselves too seriously, and enjoy being fondled more than your average bouncy ball or jar of Play-Doh. Penises are forgiving, too, willing to forget the time you left them at the playground, or made them attend a tea party with dolls they don’t care for, as long as you’ll take them out of the toy box again.

In a moment of synchronicity that sends a shiver across my skin, the proof of my theory is standing near the toddler-sized slide, grinning as he kneels down to offer outstretched arms to Mercy. The baby spots her uncle and makes a beeline for Rafe with a happy squeal that leaves no doubt we’re both happy to see him.

“There’s my girl.” Rafe lifts Mercy high into the air, grinning up at her while she kicks her arms and legs in spontaneous celebration. “Are you having fun at the playground?”

“No!” Mercy yells, followed by a wicked giggle that makes Rafe and I both laugh.

He turns to me, tucking Mercy into the crook of one arm, his smile fading as his eyes meet mine. But it dims only a watt or two and, judging from his expression, he’s not unhappy to see me. “Hey, there. Dylan said you two were down here causing trouble.”

“Lies,” I say solemnly, playing it cool as I try to read his expression. “Mercy was the one trying to eat ice cream off the merry-go-round. I was nobly defending her from germs and stickiness. I’m practically a hero.”

“No. No. No,” Mercy says, mimicking my haughty tone so perfectly I can’t help but reach for her ribs.

“Are you making fun of me, little squirrel?” I tickle her, fingers dancing as she bats me away with chubby arms, giggling. “What happened to respecting my authority? I told you to respect my authority!”

Mercy laughs harder, until her cheeks flush bright red and Rafe is forced to set her on her feet before she squirms free and falls to the ground.

“Get back here, you!” I pretend to chase after her, fingers clawed, but I give her plenty of time to escape to the safety of her favorite red tunnel. She crawls away, giggling and babbling to herself, while I stand, breath rushing out as I glance back at her delicious uncle.

“So, what’s up?” I ask, fighting to keep my tone casual. In a pair of faded black jeans and a threadbare green flannel, he shouldn’t be so beautiful that he makes my pulse race and my lungs struggle to pull in a deeper breath. But he is. Even more handsome than he was in the glow of the firelight that night on the coast.

I’d assumed our friends-with-benefits status had been snuffed out along with that campfire, but now here he is, running a hand through his shaggy hair and studying me with eyes that look more hopeful than fearful.

But hopeful for what?

Until I have a better idea, my cards are staying glued to my chest. Keeping my expression as neutral as possible, I turn to check on Mercy, knowing better than to take my eyes off of her for more than a second or two. The girl is a disaster magnet and will put literally anything into her mouth—flowers, rocks, garbage, an old shoe, spiders that are crawling across the carpet, you name it.

“I got your email.” Rafe shifts to stand behind me, making me powerfully aware of his body heat and how much I want to lean back against him and draw his arms around me. The urge to touch him is so powerful I don’t know how well I’m going to be able to pull off the “just friends” thing. At least in the near future.

“Yeah?” I peek up at him before glancing back to the playground, where Mercy is very involved in shouting something unintelligible into the plastic speaker near the tic-tac-toe rollers.

“Yeah. At first, I thought I’d dreamt it,” he says. “I had a fever for a few days while I was camped on the beach near Pismo. Made it hard to tell what was real and what was wishful thinking.”

“Bummer. That’s not a fun way to spend a vacation,” I say, even as my brain nibbles at the phrase “wishful thinking.”

So, does that mean he was hoping I would give him the all-clear, no-worries signal? That he’s relieved we’ll never devour each other like a last meal ever again?

The hope butterfly wafting cautiously through my chest shivers, as if sensing impending frost.

“No, it wasn’t fun.” He steps off the concrete ledge down into the wood chips, bringing our faces closer to level, making it impossible to keep from staring into his warm eyes. “But it was enlightening. While I was tossing and turning and sweating in my tent, I kept dreaming about you.”

My brows lift. “Yeah?”

He nods slowly, holding my gaze with an intensity that makes my heart beat faster. “You were walking by my bed, carrying trays full of drinks. I wanted one of the glasses of water sweating on your tray more than anything in the world. I was dying for it, dying for you to hold it to my mouth so I could suck down every drop, but you never stopped to offer. You didn’t even turn to look at me.”

“I’m sorry.” My lips turn down at the edges as I huff in laughter. “Dream me sounds like a jerk.”

“She wasn’t a jerk.” He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets, glancing down at the ground before peering up at me through locks of that thick, sexy hair I love to wind around my fingers while he’s kissing me. “I was the jerk. I was lying there waiting for someone to give me something I hadn’t even had the balls to ask for. What kind of entitled piece of shit does that?”

My laugh is anxious this time. I cast a glance around the small park, checking on Mercy—still yelling into the speaker—while I make sure no one is close enough to hear us. “Language, Hunter. There are small folk about.”

“Shit,” he mutters, color creeping into his cheeks, which is pretty damned adorable. “Shoot, I mean. Sorry. I haven’t done this in a long time. Ever, really. I’m pretty fu—” He bites off the word with a shake of his head. “Pretty nervous.”

“Why are you nervous?” The hope butterfly flutters its wings faster. “Because you want to ask me for a glass of water?”

He steps closer. “The glass of water was symbolic.”

“I figured,” I murmur, lips curving.

“Yeah, so… I think I was wrong about relationships.”

I blink, my heart lurching. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Yeah. What about you? Think there might be room in your life for something more than a fling? Assuming the guy was a great piece of ass, committed to making you laugh, and generally a decent person who swears he won’t ever treat you badly or tell anyone that you snore when you’re really tired?”

My smile crashes across my face. “I don’t snore. But…yeah, I could be open to that.”

“So, you want to go on a date?” he asks softly, his lips curving until his grin is as wide as mine. “A real date, no hiding. And another date after that. And maybe we just…see where things go from there, while also not seeing other people.”

I laugh. “You mean date exclusively?”

“Yeah, that’s what I meant.” His shoulders relax away from his ears as his hands come to rest on my hips, sending a rush of heat and relief through me. “I don’t know if I’ll be very good at this at first. But I want to be. Think you can put up with me until I figure out how to be a decent boyfriend?”

“Aw, an official boyfriend,” I tease, my arms going around his neck. “I haven’t had one of those in a long time. Not since college, in fact.”

His brow furrows. “Is that not what people call it anymore? Am I old and lame?”

“No. You’re not old or lame. You’re young and awesome and I definitely want you to be my sexy boyfriend. Though, I think we should keep it on the down low as far as the family is concerned. Just for a little while.”

“Before we have the talk, make sure I’m not going to screw things up?”

“No. Make sure it’s really what we both want. I don’t have the greatest track record, either, you know,” I confess. “And I’m causing my family enough stress right now. Jordan sicced his lawyer on me yesterday. He’s claiming he helped me plot the book I’m writing now and deserves half the royalties.”

Rafe’s expression goes stormy. “What the hell is up with this guy?”

“I don’t know,” I say with a sigh. “Maybe he’s crazy. Maybe he’s just vindictive. I don’t know anymore, I just want it all to go away. But at this point, it looks like we’re headed to court, one way or another.”

Rafe’s lips part, but before he can speak, a sharp, high-pitched wail sounds from the playground, followed by a familiar howl. Rafe and I break apart, turning to see Mercy at the base of the slide, tears streaming down her cheeks. I break into a run with Rafe close behind, and scoop Mercy up seconds before the next toddler emerges from the slide tunnel.

“What happened Mercy?” I ask, smoothing her blond curls from her forehead as I scan her face. “Did you get an owie?”

“Owie,” she echoes in a pitiful wail, holding up her hand. Her palm is red and there are scratch marks, but she didn’t break the skin. I’m guessing her distress is more about the shock of discomfort rather than the intensity of the pain, which means there’s only one medicine that will do.

“Oh, poor baby.” I take her hand, bringing it to my lips. “There. Three kisses. Mwuah, mwuah, mwuah. Does that feel better? You need more?”

She nods as she shifts in my arms, holding her boo-boo out to Rafe, who immediately bends low, pressing a soft kiss to the baby’s hand and making my ovaries explode. The last thing on my mind right now is making babies, and wondering what kind of dad Rafe would be has been so far off my radar that the words “Rafe” and “Father” might as well exist in different hemispheres.

But now, watching him kiss his niece’s tiny fingers while murmuring sweetly to her that he’s sorry she got hurt, I’m struck by the certainty that this man would be an incredible dad. The kind of dad who would never let you down or make you feel like you were a pain in his ass he wished wasn’t hanging around his neck demanding time, money, and attention for eighteen years. Rafe would love his children the way he loves the little girl diving into his arms for “scratchy kisses.”

I watch Rafe brush his stubbly cheek gently against Mercy’s before he kisses the plump, pink skin, making her giggle, and a tidal wave of emotion swells inside me.

I could fall in love with this man, I realize, the truth crystallizing in the cool evening air. I could fall in love with him and want a life and a future and babies with him.

His eyes suddenly cut my way, his gaze capturing mine before I can rearrange the sappy expression on my face.

But thankfully, I’m saved by a mom with a Band-Aid.

“Does she need one of these?” the brunette from the bench asks, holding out a box of Dora the Explorer Band-Aids. “I always carry some in my diaper bag. Caley manages to get hurt at least twice a day.”

“She doesn’t really need one,” I say with a smile. “But I’m sure she’d love to put one on, anyway, if you’ve got one to spare. Band-Aids are one of her favorite things.”

Mercy agrees in a stream of baby babble, making the grown-ups laugh as I take a Band-Aid and affix it to her tiny hand. “Thanks so much,” I tell Brunette Mom, who waves away my thanks.

“No worries,” she says. “She looks exactly like you two, by the way. So cute. A perfect mix of Mommy and Daddy.”

“Thanks.” Rafe bounces Mercy in his arms as he winks at me.

“What?” he asks in a softer voice as Brunette moves away and we release Mercy back into the wild. “She does look like you. And she has the Hunter chin. And eyebrows. Lucky for her, since you and Emma are eyebrow deficient.”

“I am not eyebrow deficient,” I huff, propping my fists on my hips.

Rafe makes a judgmental face. “They’re so blond you can hardly see them, Caroline. Seriously, you’re lucky the rest of you is so smoking hot or those wimpy brows would be a deal breaker.”

“Oh, they would, huh?” I shake my head as he pulls me into his arms, grinning down at me.

“I’m kidding. You’re perfect. So perfect I want to have you for dessert after I take you to dinner. Seven okay? Pick you up by the Murphy bed place?”

“Seven is perfect,” I say. “And I’ll bring an overnight bag.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.” The delight in his smile assures me that he means it. And the kiss he presses to my cheek is a mixture of sexy and sweet unlike anything I’ve felt in a long time.

It’s terrifying. And exciting. And by the time he waves goodbye and I push Mercy’s stroller back onto the sidewalk, the hope butterflies in my chest have multiplied.

It’s a damned butterfly parade in there.

A festival.

And it feels completely, fucking amazing.