Chapter 12 Dallas
I hoist Ellie up onto the kitchen counter. She’s in her jammies, with that curly-girl bedhead, that’ll stay like that until either Rose or I do something about it. Usually Rose.
But Ellie likes it bouncy in the morning for some odd reason. Never asked. Going to have to one of these days.
I push a few spirals from out of her face, then press my palms to the countertop on either side of her.
“All right, I got all your favorites. Pebbles, Sugar Flakes, box of pancake mix, the works—”
“Sugar Flakes?” Her eyes pop.
I hold up a finger. “But before breakfast, there’s something really important I need to talk to you about. Two things.”
Her face falls. “It’s Grandma, isn’t it?”
I blink. “Well—I mean, yes, but—”
Her eyes haze up like she’s trying to remember the last time she saw her. “She got too sick?”
I nod. “Yeah, honey, she did.”
Her pretty blue eyes water but she doesn’t burst into tears. “I knew it.”
I inhale, part proud of her strength, part worried about it. “Well, I’m glad you prepared yourself, but it’s still very sad and it’s OK to be upset.”
“She gave me Pinky.”
“Who?”
“The pink pig stuffy in my room. She told me her name was Piggy, but I thought she said Pinky.”
The tears in her eyes never fall. If anything she looks confused. Looking up at me sincerely, she asks, “Do you think I should rename her Piggy? Like Grandma wanted?”
I blink.
How the hell do I answer that? Do I say yes, you should, because she’d love that. Would it make Ellie feel better that she’s doing something to honor her grandmother?
Or do I say no, because we’d be making Piggy—or Pinky—a sad memory?
I step back, running a hand through my hair. “Why don’t you keep callin’ her Pinky. That way, we don’t confuse Pinky.”
She nods, relieved but still a little unsure.
Shit. Was that the wrong answer?
“I know what the second thing is,” she says quietly, head dropping.
“You do?”
“I have to go live with Grandpa now? Because he’s not taking care of Grandma anymore?”
“What? No. What gave you that idea?”
She shrugs, eyes still down. “I saw him here from the window yesterday.”
“Oh. You didn’t want to come and say hello?” Usually, she can’t wait to see Cole when he comes to pick her up for visits.
She shakes her head and I don’t blame her. I’m sure that man didn’t look happy from any angle last night.
“Are you and Grandpa fighting?”
“No,” I answer quickly. “No. Grandpa, well . . . he’s just very sad right now.
And . . . maybe a little lonely. Sometimes when you lose someone, you—” I’m about to tell her you go into a dark place and forget everything that matters—but I settle for something she might understand.
“You forget who you are, the things that matter.”
She furrows her brows. “I miss Grandma, too. Am I going to forget who I am?”
“No.” I chuckle. “No, you’re not going to forget who you are. You see, Grandpa and Grandma have been together for a long time. He doesn’t know who he is without her. But the good news is that he’ll come around.” I straighten. “Until he does . . . I need to make sure you’re safe with me.”
She nods like she’s slowly understanding. “If that’s not the other thing, then what is?”
My eyes lift to the redhead standing in the archway of the kitchen. Her brown eyes pool—she shines in this light. Hell, I’m pretty sure she’d shine in any light.
I nod my head and Ellie turns, a knowing smile as her eyes meet Willow’s. “Hi, Willow.”
She’s not . . . surprised?
I try to search for any other reaction. Anger? Disappointment? No. She just knew Willow was still here.
And seems to be all right with it.
When we got back last night, we briefed Dad and Ginger on Willow hanging out for a bit. That’s how I put it. “She’s going to hang out for a bit.” Because I didn’t know what else to say. Everyone in the room knew why. And everyone agreed it was for the best she does.
Ellie was already asleep—safe and warm in her bed.
Apparently Ginger sent Dad out last night to grab a couple of space heaters from the ranch office.
They set one up in Ellie’s room and one in mine.
I felt awful for running out on her, missing tucking her in during my last effort to chase Willow out of town.
But Dad reassured me all that mattered was that I brought her back—and that Ellie is much safer for it.
Willow’s knowing smirk right back to my little girl now has my head spinning.
“You two run into each other while I was asleep or something?” I ask.
Ellie shakes her head and wiggles a pink-covered foot toward Willow. “I knew you were here when I found my slippers next to my bed this morning.”
Willow steps in, keeping her distance on the opposite side of the island. “Found one in the upstairs bathroom last night and went on a hunt for the other.”
Ellie turns to me. “I like my slippers.”
I know that. I almost say defensively.
Of course I know that. Ellie’s always wearing something on her feet. Socks, booties Maya made her, and those pink fuzzy slippers that I keep seeing everywhere.
But I don’t need another competition where my daughter’s concerned, I remind myself. It’s a good thing she likes Willow.
I think.
I perk a brow. “Take it that’s where your nickname came from?”
Ellie’s curls bounce as she bobs her head.
“Willow was sleeping in your bedroom at Uncle Wilder’s, and my slippers were in there.
But Rose said not to go wake her friend because she’s not pretty in the morning.
But then Willow opened the door, stuck her hand out, and dropped them out in the hall for me,” Ellie exclaims, like she’s retelling the most incredible story.
“She put them by my bed every day since—she says it’s so I don’t wake her again. ”
My brows rise. “Ah, so there was an agenda.”
Ellie blinks. “I don’t know, but Rose says she needs, like, a lot of coffee before we’re allowed to talk to her.”
“Don’t I know it,” I grumble. “Suppose we should hurry before she swipes those slippers off your feet.” I step back and Ellie jumps off and beelines to Willow.
“Are you staying for a long time?”
Willow glances at me in a little panic. “That’s a good question, uh . . . what’s . . . well, what’s a long time for someone your age?”
She thinks about it for all of two seconds. “Like a lot of sleeps.”
Willow laughs. “Oh, you’re in luck, kid.
I do that a lot.” She sits on a chair so she’s more level with Ellie, while I try not to overpour sugar in my cup.
“I was thinking, since . . .” She shrugs.
“. . . I don’t have much going on back home, and you and I had such a fun week together, that maybe I could stay and .
. .” She stares at my girl like she doesn’t know what to say.
And now I’m the one panicking. “Hang out for bit, maybe teach you to play piano, take you to school, make you fun lunches?”
“Like a nanny?”
Willow winces and I try not to read into it too much. “Maybe. Would you like that?”
Ellie nods but there’s something about it that doesn’t sit right with me.
Willow nudges her. “Also, you give the best hugs.”
Can’t agree more with that. Ellie’s a hugger and I love that about her.
She giggles and steps into Willow’s arms. “Now can you tell me how long?”
Crap. Thought we dodged that one.
“I suppose till you get sick of me. Or my singing. Whichever comes first. The singing, most likely—I do that a lot.”
Ellie raises her hand. “I have another question.”
“Shoot.”
Ellie crosses her arms. “If nannies are supposed to wake you up and get you ready for school, who’s making your coffee?”
I clear my throat, stirring the caffeine in my mug. “I suppose I could leave you some in the morning before my rounds.”
Willow tosses me a look, then crosses to me, her eyes fixed on my cup. She swipes it from my hands and takes a sip. Her lips cover where mine were seconds ago and I wonder—no, I hope it’s intentional.
I watch her shoulders rise slightly as she inhales, and lower with a sigh as she tastes it. Her throat bobs as she swallows. Flicking her eyes to my chest she hands it back to me. “I’ll make my own, thanks,” she mutters.
She insulted my coffee. I know she’s messing with me, but I can’t think of a comeback. Because my stupid brain is trying to figure out how to flip this cup without making it obvious I want to taste her.
I suppress a growl. What is this woman doing to me? I shouldn’t want to taste her—or have my lips seek out traces of hers like a desperate moron who’s never been laid.
I set it down instead. My appetite shifting to something no level of caffeine can satisfy.
Willow raises a bored eyebrow and yawns. “So what’s for breakfast, Slippers? Oatmeal?”
“Yuk.”
Willow nods curtly but her head wobbles sleepily. “Powdered sugar it is.” She turns toward the counter, blinking like she’s lost. Then reaches for my mug again, this time gulping it all the way down.
“Not bad after all?”
“It’s barely eight o’clock. It’ll have to do if you want this kid fed and in a matching outfit for school,” she mutters.
“Should I be worried?” I murmur back as Willow reaches for a box of my cornflakes. I know Ellie is not going to like them.
She pours them into a bowl and I peek over at my frowning seven-year-old.
A tiny level of satisfaction—or maybe validation—that I know my girl better than she does.
“It’s day one, Spout, cut me a break. I’ll be . . .” She yawns and damn, it’s adorable. So adorable, I picture her doing it first thing in the morning . . . in my bed. “More on point tomorrow . . . probably.”
I must be tired too because I’m fighting the urge to carry her back to bed. Props if I manage to get her to that guest room rather than mine.
I shake my head, snapping out of it just in time to find Willow wink back at Ellie as she sprinkles powdered sugar—as promised—into the dry cereal. I can tell it’s not a lot—but Willow makes a whole show of it, like she’s not leaving one flake unsprinkled.
Ellie brightens. “Yay.”
“I’ve got to go,” I rasp. “Rose’ll be here to take Ellie to school before eight thirty. I’ll pick her up.”
“Why can’t I pick her up?”
Too many reasons.
The minute a woman—who’s not Rose or Ginger and looks like the human version of Jessica Rabbit—comes to pick up Ellie, the entire town will be talking. Especially with all the moms and teachers around during dismissal. Something I can’t explain in front of Ellie.
“You don’t have a car,” I answer simply.
“Warm milk, please,” Ellie asks.
“Warm milk? Who drinks warm milk?” Willow mumbles as she pulls the saucepan up off the hook and onto the stove. “Listen, lady. Big girls drink cold milk. You’d be the laughing stock of East Village Elementary if they find out you need it heated up first.”
I slide over to her subtly. “You sure you going to be all right?”
She pours milk into the saucepan like it’s a waste. Then meets my eyes. “Don’t trust me?” she pouts.
Fuck . . . the pouting. And even though I know she’s messing with me, why does she look so damn good pouting?
But right now? All I want to do is give that bottom lip a good, hard nip, leave it swollen, maybe a little bruised.
“I hope you don’t plan on making that a habit—” I point to her mouth. “I don’t like it.”
I don’t give her a chance to react. I leave her with those lips parted and move toward my daughter, giving her a quick kiss on her head before I walk out.