Things We Burn Read Online Anne Malcom

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Sports, Virgin Tags Authors: Anne Malcom Advertisement

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Kane had decided to just leave her. I, on the other hand, was petrified that Blanche would somehow snap and decide to try to eat Mabel, hence my laser-like focus on any small movement on the monitor.

No, Blanche had never shown so much as a smidgeon of aggression toward our daughter, but my intrusive thoughts knew no logic.

I tensed the moment Blanche’s head lifted from where it had been resting against her feet.

Seconds later, a soft knock sounded against the door. Thank God the delivery person had finally read the sign we not so subtly put up to request no one ring the doorbell.

I went to the door, expecting to pick up one of the many middle of the night purchases I’d made while breastfeeding and researching things that would help Mabel sleep easier.

But it wasn’t a package.

“Fiona,” I gasped, staring at the woman on my doorstep.

Both she and Nora had sent gift baskets and texts and pastries and offers to come over to watch the baby—which I’d thought was extremely nice, but I wasn’t comfortable with that. Because they were essentially strangers. Nice, interesting and warm strangers, but strangers nonetheless.

I was not prepared for them to see me like that. I wasn’t prepared to see myself like that, but I had no other choice.

Both my mother and Maisie had urged me to take them up on the offers, to connect with them and make mom friends.

I’d smiled and pacified them but hadn’t intended on doing it. Not now or in the immediate future. I was trying to survive; I didn’t need to socialize too.

Yet there she was, at my doorstep. And unless I wanted to slam the door in her face, I had no choice but to socialize.

Fiona looked me up and down. I could only imagine what she saw. My hair was piled on my head, and I was pretty sure I’d brushed my teeth today. I’d fed Mabel before her nap and hadn’t bothered with a breast pad, so I likely had stains on my white tank. From milk and the tomato pasta I’d just shoveled in my face.

Fiona, however, looked flawless. Her short blonde hair was effortlessly shiny and curly. Her slim figure was encased in a stain-free white tee and jeans. She had no bags underneath her eyes and looked vibrant and alive. “You need a village, girlfriend,” Fiona declared, pushing her way through the front door, canvas bags hanging from the crooks of her arms.

“I know it’s risky, bringing food to a chef, but I figured that you wouldn’t be worrying too much about the Michelin Star quality of it since you don’t have to make it or do the dishes,” she informed me as I dumbly followed her through the living room into the kitchen.

I couldn’t even remember if I’d closed the front door, and I was too tired to go back to check.

Fiona unpacked foil packages, each of them with white labels on them.

“I’ll put some in the fridge and the rest in the freezer,” she continued as if I’d spoken a word to her aside from breathing her name in surprise.

She paused with her hand on the fridge. “Is the baby sleeping?” she asked, looking around, expecting to find a baby hidden somewhere.

I nodded. “If she wasn’t, you’d know,” I said with a grim smile.

Fiona’s eyes were kind, understanding, and the mere look made me want to dissolve into tears. “Do we need to be quiet?”

I shook my head. “Mabel will sleep through anything. The surefire way to wake her up is to put her down in her crib, and I managed that already.”

I thought bitterly about all the movies and shows that depicted babies being put into cribs, gooing and gahing while their parents kissed them on the head, turned off the light and closed the door.

Utter bullshit.

Fiona nodded, opening the fridge then clanged things about as she rearranged its contents. “Good. Babies need to be able to sleep with life going on around them.” She closed the fridge. “And as for the other thing? Despite what all the sleep training gurus and whisperers tell you, it’s luck of the draw. They come preloaded with personality and willpower. Some can be trained, sure. Others are just little bastards.” She went to a bag where she retrieved baked goods and coffee, which she handed to me.

I stared at Fiona for two seconds, then I burst into tears. Real tears. I was shocked and disgusted at myself, but I couldn’t stop.

Before all of this, that would’ve been my worst nightmare. I was uncomfortable with emotions, tears especially, and always delegated the shoulder pats and kind words to my sous chef whenever someone broke down in my kitchens.

But I was a world away from commanding a world-class kitchen with a will of steel and emotions locked down tight. That thought, of course, only served to bring on more tears and a very ugly sounding sob.

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