I know he’s about to walk away. Under any other circumstances, Murph might be great with children. The flirtatious tattoo shop owner I met on the first day might actually be the kind of guy to entertain a little girl with his company, but this tortured, grieving man couldn’t be more out of place.

“Here you go,” Lucy says, and my eyes follow her tiny arm as she lifts up the blue flower she just made toward Murph.

He pauses, and I watch cautiously, hoping he’ll put the animosity between him and Ryder behind him so he can at least be kind to the child.

After a moment, he reaches out and takes the flower. “This is for me?”

“It’s a blue rose,” Lucy says, still watching his face. “Like the one on your arm.”

The air leaves my lungs. Murph looks down, his gaze falling on the gray and blue flower on his forearm.

“It’s a morning glory. Not a rose.” He takes the flower and sets his coffee cup down on the table next to mine.

“Oh,” Lucy replies softly. “Why do you have it?”

“It was Hazel’s favorite flower. I used to buy them for her on her birthday.”

My eyes refuse to leave his face, this rugged man speaking about flowers and his foster mother to a child. It was almost too hard to watch, such a contradiction to the fierce man I made love to last night, and this morning.

“That’s my middle name.” Lucy turns back to her paper and continues drawing flowers and rose petals like she didn’t just freeze the air in the room. It’s clear that Murph didn’t know this because he watches her carefully.

“Can I help?” he asks, taking a small crayon in his big, tattooed hand.

“Yep.”

Then his eyes lift up to reach mine, and I’m helpless against the smile that creeps across my face. The corner of his lips turns up, which is a pretty big smile for Murph.

Ryder walks into the room a moment later, and even he stops dead in his tracks when he sees Lucy’s company around the table.

“Good morning,” I greet him, but Murph doesn’t even look in his direction.

Ruby walks in a moment later. “I just got off the phone with the funeral home.” The entire dynamic of the room changes as we all watch her carefully. “Services are set for Saturday.”

“What do you need us to do?” I ask.

“I think I got everything under control. It keeps me busy, distracted.” She walks back to the sink and proceeds to wash another glass, even though the dishwasher is perfectly capable of doing it.

The silence kills me. I need to fill it with something. So I stand and approach her, resting my hand on her shoulder.

“I can go to the funeral home with you. We can pick out the casket and flowers.”