Chapter 11
Boss Energy
Coleman
Imiss my old coffee.
Not the taste—God knows Stella always bought that burnt nonsense that tasted like cardboard and air—but the routine of it. The calm. The predictability.
The kind of morning where no one forgot an appointment. Where clients didn’t ghost. Where contractors didn’t call five minutes before a walk-through to say they “misplaced the keys.”
I miss a lot of things I probably never actually had.
By the time I pull into the driveway, I’ve already loosened my tie and counted backward from ten more times than I want to admit. My jaw hurts from clenching. My inbox is a dumpster fire. And I haven’t eaten since breakfast.
I just want quiet. I just want five minutes where no one needs anything from me.
I just want—
“What the hell…”
I don’t finish the sentence. Because the minute I open the door, I’m hit with chaos.
There’s glitter on the floor. Something that smells like vanilla and strawberries is drifting through the air.
I walk into the kitchen and the counter is covered in tiny glass pots, open tubes of something pink and sparkly, a muffin tin full of what might be lip gloss—or possibly melted unicorns—and all three of them are in the middle of it.
Payton is leaning over a mixing bowl like she’s concocting a potion. Paige is labeling a jar with a giant heart that says “Button’s Blend” and Remi—Remi—is laughing. Barefoot, hair in a messy bun, cheeks flushed and arms smeared with shimmer like she survived a war made of glitter.
None of them see me. I’m just standing there. Like I don’t belong in my own house.
Something in me itches. Pulls tight. I didn’t sign up for this. I didn’t agree to this. I came home for quiet. I step forward, trying to keep my voice steady. “What… is going on in here?”
Paige looks up first, proud. “Lip gloss lab.”
Payton doesn’t even blink. “It was my day yesterday. Paige picked this.”
“It’s everywhere.”
“It’s awesome,” Paige beams.
I look to Remi, expecting her to apologize. To clean it up. To fix this. She doesn’t.
Instead, she smiles. Calm. Unbothered. “Rough day?”
And just like that—my shoulders drop. I hate that she can read me that easily. Hate that her voice makes the noise in my head quiet down just a little. Hate even more that I don’t want her to stop talking.
She crosses the room slowly, her bare feet soft on the tile. “You want to join us?”
“No.” My tone is sharper than I mean. “I just want—”
Quiet. But they’re laughing. And they’re smiling. And Paige just holds up tube of sparkly red something called “Boss Energy.”
“What the hell is that?”
Paige doesn’t give me time to think. One second she’s behind the counter, and the next she’s crashing into me with all the force her tiny frame can muster.
Her arms wrap tight around my middle, face pressed into my shirt like she’s trying to climb inside my ribs.
I hold her back. I press my lips to the top of her glitter-streaked hair and whisper, “Boss Energy, huh?”
She pulls back just enough to grin. “You need it.”
“You’re not wrong.” I ruffle her hair. “Hi, Button.”
As soon as she lets go, I look toward Payton.
My girl is leaning against the fridge, arms crossed like she hasn’t been watching the whole scene from the corner of her eye.
We play our usual game. The I’m-too-cool-to-need-you act she’s been clinging to, even though we both know how this ends. I step closer, slow and quiet. She doesn’t move.
“Hey, Bug.” Her chin dips slightly. I reach out and tug gently on the end of her ponytail, just once. “Good day?”
Her lips twitch. “Loud.”
“Still breathing?”
“Barely.”
I let out a quiet laugh and wrap one arm around her, just enough to make it count without embarrassing her. She lets me. And that’s a win.
And then…
Then there’s Remi.
Still standing in the kitchen, still wearing that soft smile like it’s armor and comfort all in one. There’s a streak of shimmer on her cheek, right at the curve of her jaw.
I don’t think. I just move. My hand lifts without permission, fingers brushing along her cheekbone with the barest touch.
She goes still. So do I. Because her breath hitches the moment my skin meets hers. Not from surprise. But from something deeper. Something neither of us is ready to name.
I trail my fingers away and hold them up between us.
They glint in the kitchen light—glitter, pale gold and iridescent.
“You’re glowing,” I murmur.
Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s not me,” she says softly. “That’s Paige’s lip gloss.”
But we both know that’s not true. I should walk away. I know that.
I should turn around, heat up something frozen, ask the girls what chaos they’ve planned next, and pretend like I didn’t just touch her like that.
But I don’t move.
I stand there like an idiot, fingers still suspended in the air, the soft shimmer catching the light like it means something. Like she means something.
She drops her gaze first, stepping back just enough to grab a towel and start wiping down the counter. Like she didn’t just short-circuit the last working piece of my brain. Like her breath didn’t hitch. Like I didn’t feel her lean into my touch for just a second longer than she had to.
I wipe my hand on my jeans. The glitter stays. Of course it does.
The girls are still fussing over their glosses, arguing about whose smells more like actual strawberries, and I force myself to look away from Remi. I focus on them instead. On what matters. On the reason she’s even here.
But even as Paige holds up a tube and says, “Dad, smell this—it’s like unicorn dreams and cupcakes,” my eyes keep flicking back to her.
To the way Remi bites her lip when she concentrates. To the way her laugh sounds like it belongs here. To the way the light dances in her hair when she moves.
Coffee-colored.
God help me. I run a hand down my face. What am I doing?
This woman is in my house to take care of my daughters. Not… not to smile at me like that. Not to challenge every wall I’ve built. Not to bake cookies I didn’t ask for or laugh like she’s never had to be careful with her joy.
She’s too much. Too loud. Too young. Too free.
And I’m just… tired. Worn. Scarred.
I don’t have room for this. For her.
I shouldn’t want the way she makes the house feel alive. Shouldn’t like how the girls come out of their shells around her. Shouldn’t need to hear her voice late at night drifting down the stairs when I’m pretending not to listen.
I especially shouldn’t be wondering what her mouth tastes like after strawberry lip gloss and vanilla cookies.
Jesus.
I turn back to the girls. “You two clean this up before dinner. I’m not scraping glitter out of the sink for the next week.”
Paige sticks out her tongue. “It’s biodegradable!”
I arch a brow. “Not in my drain, it’s not.”
Remi chuckles behind me. I hear it. Feel it. And I swear to God, if she laughs like that one more time, I’m going to forget why I’m supposed to keep my distance.
I need space. I need time. I need this glitter off my damn hands. But even as I scrub my palm against a towel, the shimmer lingers.
Just like her
She’s trying to slip away again.
I catch the faint creak of the stairs and look up just in time to see the hem of her soft pink sweater disappearing up the steps, her hair swinging in that lazy ponytail like she’s got somewhere else to be.
Again. She hasn’t eaten dinner with us once. And I get it—sort of. She thinks she’s giving us space. Thinks the girls need time alone with me. That I need time with them. She doesn’t understand that they're different with her here.
I move before I can talk myself out of it. My voice catches her just before she disappears around the landing. “Remi.”
She pauses. Turns. One hand on the railing, a foot on the next step. Her eyes soft, cautious. “Yeah?”
I swallow the knot in my throat. Try to make my words come out smooth. Not desperate. Not pathetic. “Dinner’s ready,” I say. “And… the girls leave for Stella’s tomorrow.”
She nods, quiet understanding flashing across her face.
I add, a little rougher than I mean to, “I want tonight to feel like something good. Before it doesn’t.”
There it is. Not begging. But close. Close enough that something shifts in her posture. Her grip on the railing loosens. She exhales like I’ve deflated all her excuses in one sentence.
“You sure?” she asks gently.
I nod. “Stay.”
She does. And it’s… easy. Too easy.
The kitchen buzzes with chatter and clinking forks.
Paige insists on putting the glittery napkins on the table again, and Payton spends half the meal explaining the elaborate storyline of her latest comic book plot to Remi, who listens like she’s been waiting all her life for this exact story to be told.
I don’t say much. Mostly because I’m watching them. All of them.
Paige smiling without reservation. Payton reaching for seconds without hesitation. Remi laughing like she belongs. Like she was always meant to sit at my table.
And maybe… maybe she was.
After dinner, Paige starts clearing the table, like it’s her idea, and Payton disappears only to reappear with a blanket, a remote, and her best attempt at puppy eyes.
“We thought…” she starts, glancing at her sister.
Paige picks it up, hopeful. “Movie night?”
I glance at the clock. Too late. They’re stalling. Stretching the night as long as they can so they don’t have to wake up and face her. But I can’t tell them no. Not tonight. I scrub a hand down my face and sigh. “One movie.”
They squeal and sprint to set everything up. Remi lingers at the edge of the kitchen. “You don’t have to,” I tell her.
“I know.” She tilts her head. “But I want to.”
We end up all spread across the living room. Paige curls under my arm. Payton takes the floor with her sketch pad, pretending not to care but sitting close enough to brush against my leg when she shifts.
Remi claims the other end of the couch. Not touching. Not trying. But there. And that’s worse. Because I don’t watch the movie. I watch her.
I watch the way she tucks her feet under herself like she’s home. I watch her eyes flicker to the girls every few seconds, like she needs to memorize them. I watch the way her smile slips every time a scene gets too quiet, like her thoughts are louder than the dialogue.
She doesn’t even realize she’s humming along with the music. She’s just in it. And I can’t stop watching. Because somewhere between the glitter and the waffles and the damn strawberry lip gloss… this woman has become the most dangerous thing in my house.
She’s comfort. She’s color. She’s hope. And I don’t know how to live with any of that. Not after everything I’ve lost.