I cut him a look. He’s not being sarcastic but it irritates me just the same. “I know that. I just …” The tightness in my chest increases. “I want to be the one taking care of her. Not because she can’t, but because I can.”

That doesn’t make any sense. But I don’t know how else to explain it.

Killian sits next to me, silent and sipping his beer. We’ve been friends for so long, I know how he sits when he’s agitated, ignoring me, or when he’s simply waiting for me to figure my shit out. He’s going to have a long wait.

I blow out a hard breath. “Kills, man, how did you do it? With Libby, I mean.”

He turns his head to meet my eyes. “You mean, how did I let her in and keep her there?”

“Yeah,” I croak. “That.”

Slowly, he nods, his beer bottle dangling between his fingertips. The bottle swings as he gives a dry laugh. “Thing is, I didn’t let her in. She just ended up there. I met her, and she became a part of me.” His dark eyes pin me. “It wasn’t a matter of letting her in. It was accepting that she was already there and going with it.”

My hands curl into fists. “Stella was in. She was all the way in, and I was so fucking happy. No, not just happy, I felt peace.”

“I know,” Killian says in a low voice. “Believe me, I know.”

I snort, but it’s directed at myself. “And I still cast her out.”

His smile is tight and wry. “Yeah, well, no one said it was easy accepting that you’re all in.”

A groan leaves me, and I slump into the couch. “I did a Cowardly Lion sprint out the window, and I killed the best thing I’ve ever had.”

“Pretty much.”

Killian ducks when I chuck a couch pillow at his head. “Seriously, you can shut it with the tough love.”

He snickers, then grows serious. “You fucked up. Everyone does at some point. You want her back?”

“Yes.” Just saying the word dislodges something in my chest, and I take what feels like the first real breath I’ve had since she left. So I say it again, because it’s the only true thing in my world now. “Yes, I want her.”

“Then nut up and fix the problem.”

The reality of what I face isn’t pretty. “I’m not sure I can fix it. Stella doesn’t trust easily. Less than we do. And I’ve gone and stomped all over that trust.”

He gives my shoulder an encouraging slap. “You love her. She loves you. The rest is logistics. Now, go get your girl.”

Getting my girl is easier said than done. First off, I don’t know where the hell she is. Stella learned from her dad how to stay off the grid. If he managed to stay hidden for years, Stella is certainly capable of doing the same. The idea that I might not be able to find her fills me with panic. Imagining a long life ahead of me without knowing where Stella is or never saying another word to her makes me ill.

Since I’m clueless, I go the fount of knowledge in my personal universe.

Scottie answers the door on the fifth knock. His hair is sticking up on one side and his tie is askew—being clutched in the merciless grip on a chubby baby fist. Felix gives me a toothy smile as if to say look who I made my bitch. My admiration for his game is strong.

“Thought you might turn up. Here, take this.” Scottie thrusts Felix into my arms. “I’ve got to piss something awful. Sophie just came back from the Hamptons and is napping off a hangover, and …” He stops at that, turns heel, and takes the stairs two at a time to the upper floor.

“You know, you could just put him in his crib,” I call after Scottie.

His disembodied voice rings out. “Try it, mate. I dare you.”

A door slams, and I’m left alone with twenty pounds of drooling baby who has decided that my eyebrows would be better off detached from my face.

“Okay, little dude.” I ease his fingers away from my abused flesh. “Let’s find you something better to play with.”

Scottie’s Upper West Side brownstone is wide enough that there is a central staircase and rooms on either side. They have a family room set up in the back with a wall of windows overlooking a small garden.

Before baby, the place was immaculate—cream couches, pale silk Aubusson rugs, and glass tables. The couches are now charcoal, the rug is still silk but a crimson Persian, and the tables are all sturdy dark woods. Still nice, but way more spot friendly. And messy. Toys litter the floor. Four mugs with various amounts of cold coffee in them are on the table. A few baby blankets are spread out, and there’s some weird-looking jungle-gym thing that seems to be made out of padded plastic with stuffed bugs hanging from it. Bizarre.

“Here, bud. Let’s play with this.” I set Felix down in front of the dangly bugs.

He looks at the sappy bugs, then at me, then back at the bugs. His little chin prunes up. I hear an internal warning alarm blaring, “Danger! Danger! Abort mission! Abort!!”

I jiggle one of the toy bugs. “Fun, yeah?”

No, no it is not. Tears well in Felix’s eyes, and he sucks in a deep breath. It is the scary calm before the storm. His temper breaks with an ungodly wail, his little arms flailing, face bright red. It is horrifying.

“Okay, okay.” I pick him up and start walking around. “It’s okay. Those bugs are creepy anyway.”

Felix does his best to blow my eardrums out. Considering I’ve made a career of dialing the sound up to eleven, his vocals are impressive.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I try to jiggle him like Sophie does but it’s a no-go. Little Dude is not having it. His back arches as he screams his fury, and I have to clutch him closer for fear of dropping him. “Jesus, I thought I was emotional. What about this little …” I look at the gray stuffed thing I’ve picked up. I have no fucking idea what it is. “Monkey? You want your monkey?”

Gray lumpy monkey goes flying with one indignant swat.

“Right. Monkeys suck. Noted.”

Felix has murder in his eyes and the freaking lungs of Robert Plant.

Scottie strides into the room with a harried expression. “You put him down, didn’t you?”

“I thought he might want to play! I mean, what the fuck, dude?”

Scottie takes his son, grabs a pacifier, and holds it up to Felix’s mouth. “Here’s your dummy, love.”

The little stinker immediately sucks it in and then rests his head on Scottie’s shoulder with a shuddering sigh like he’s just been through a long, hard battle. Clearly, one I lost.

“Plug up the hole.” I slap my forehead. “I should have known.”

Scottie and Felix shoot me twin glares.

My nerves are officially shot, and I swear I need a drink or to run this adrenaline out. “Holy hell, mate, how do you even know what to do?”

“Trial by fire.” Scottie smiles thinly. “Only the strong survive.”

I take back every dad joke I’ve made about Scottie. He deserves a medal.

“Put me down as a ‘thank you but no’ when it comes to babysitting duty.”

Scottie snorts. “Mate, none of you clowns are getting anywhere near my progeny. He’d end up in leather pants and likely develop an unfortunate attachment to drums.”

I can’t help but smile. “That would be kind of cool. I’m going to look into leather baby pants. Maybe have some made. You’ll have to ask Whip for the drums.”