14
I softened my expression, trying to muster a gentle smile.
“What are you doing here all by yourself?” I asked softly.
He pressed his lips together, his expression a forced imitation of seriousness. “Daddy said I’m not suppose to talk to strangers.”
He enunciated each word clearly. But as soon as he finished, he lowered the diamond pony and reached out his finger gently brushing my earlobe.
He seemed shy. The touch was feather–light before he curled his fingers into a fist and quickly pulled his hand back.
He looked at me and said earnestly, “My mommy has one of these, too.”
The reflection in the window showed the small red mole on the side of my ear. The little boy’s eyelashes fluttered as he looked at me, his gaze so clean, so soft.
In that moment, I desperately wanted to hug him.
But before I could move, a sound came from the restroom behind me. Someone was approaching with quick, urgent steps. An arm shot out and swept the child off the ground.
I looked up, stunned, and met the man’s cold, vigilant eyes.
“Don’t touch him,” he said, his voice low and commanding, looking down at me. He spared me only three
words.
My outstretched hand froze in mid–air, not even having grazed the hem of the child’s clothes.
