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Sage shrugged. “I was gonna ask for pizza, but if you’ve got two brothers who played pro ball and a brother-in-law, I think I can hold out for a bigger prize.”
My eyes narrowed. “They’re the ones who play, not me. I’m not making millions, kid.”
“Fine. Two weekends of pizza, and you go to bat for me if I get grounded.”
“Deal.”
She smiled, and the quick fierceness of that smile had my chest tight with memories because she reminded me so much of her mom when she was that age. Sage glanced at the window and waved at Harlow.
I chuckled, shaking my head at the innocence in her face. “You’re good, kid.”
Under her breath, she whispered, “Hollis King.”
“Hollis King,” I repeated slowly. The matching initials had me smiling. “Clever.”
“You never heard it from me,” she said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The front door opened, and we grinned at each other. Harlow leaned her hands on the porch railing. “You two going to come in for dinner or stand out here and throw the football all night?”
I glanced at Sage, then at Harlow. “Depends on what’s for dinner.”
Sage laughed.
Harlow held my gaze, challenge sparking bright in her eyes. “Something you didn’t have to make,” she said slowly.
“That sounds absolutely delicious, doesn’t it, Sage?” I asked.
She gave me an unconvinced look. “I guess.”
I held my hands out, and she tossed the ball again. When I took off running toward the house with it, she yelled out, chasing me easily. Harlow’s eyes were happy when we ascended the porch.
“Nice to see you show up at your own house.”
“Is it?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes.”
Still holding her gaze, I tossed the football at her, and she caught it with an oomph. She kicked at my feet as I walked inside the house, and I shouldered her gently. Behind us, Sage laughed. “You may change your mind about that, Keaton. Give it time.”
Chapter 8
Harlow
The stunning ability of a writer to distract themselves with complete and utter bullshit was one of the most fascinating aspects of my job.
For instance, I didn’t really like to cook. I could follow a recipe like a champ and rarely burned things, but the sheer mess involved in creating a big meal never felt like a worthwhile trade-off. Instead, I preferred to support the local economy by ordering takeout and buying foods that required little more than being reheated.
Back in New York, it was very common for Sage and me to have cereal for dinner because if it’s good enough for breakfast, why wasn’t it good enough for dinner?
All of this prior history was probably why my daughter was stunned to come home from school to find me in the kitchen, making a very elaborate dinner. She stood rooted in the middle of the kitchen, her backpack slowly sliding off onto the floor.
“Mom,” she said slowly. “Are you having a mental breakdown?”
My hands paused their stirring movement, and I glanced down at the bowl of potato mixture for the twice-baked potatoes. “No, why?”
Sage glanced slowly around the kitchen. There was a roast in the Crock-Pot, chocolate chip cookies cooling on a rack, and fancy salad fixings ready to be mixed on the counter, and it had to be said, the house smelled amazing.
