That gets the tiniest smile to break across her cheeks. “Right. Of course. I get it.”
“Don’t make me regret this, Carly.”
Chapter 8
Carly
Saturday afternoon feelsa little like I accidentally walked into somebody else’s life and forgot to leave.
But not in a bad way — because I am somehow standing outside a little ice cream shop on Pearl Street, sunlight hitting the windows, people drifting up and down the sidewalk in puffy vests and sunglasses, and Grayson Sparkks is turning around with his daughter on one hip like this is a completely normal thing for my body to be witnessing.
It is not normal.
It is deeply, catastrophically unfair.
Work-Grayson is bad enough — expensive coats, crisp shirts, the whole intimidating CEO package. Weekend-Grayson, though, is worse. So much worse. He’s in black joggers, a charcoal quarter-zip, white sneakers that probably cost more than I could ever hope to afford, and a navy baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Casual enough to look approachable. Fitted enough to make me briefly forget my own name.
And then there’s Penelope.
She’s perched on his hip in a tiny pink jacket with little rainbow flowers on it, dark brown, almost black curls bouncing around her cheeks, staring at me with the solemn intensity of a four-year-old deciding whether I deserve to exist.
She’s so cute I almost steal her for myself.
“Pen, this is Carly,” Grayson says, his voice calmer than it was last night, but still carrying that same rough edge like he’s allergic to sounding too warm for too long. “Carly, this is Penelope.”
Penelope squints at me. “You’re a lady.”
I blink. “I am, yeah.”
She considers that for a second. “Okay.”
She reaches one tiny hand toward me like she’s granting an audience, and I’ve never felt more honored.I shake her hand because obviously that feels like the appropriate level of formality for a very small queen. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
She nods once, satisfied. “I’m having chocolate.”
“Excellent choice. The best, in my opinion.”
Her expression brightens instantly, a grin spreading across her cheeks. “Daddy got vanilla because he’sboring.”
I cover my mouth to hide the laugh building, failing miserably, and glance up at Grayson.
He’s already looking at me, assessing.Something hot skitters down my spine so fast it almost takes me out at the knees.
He arches a brow as he drags his gaze back down to his daughter. “I like vanilla. That doesn’t mean I’m boring, Penny.”
Penelope leans toward me in his arms, her ice cream nearly falling off its cone. “He likes things that are plain,” she whispers, but it’s absolutely loud enough for him to hear.
I press my lips together to hold in another laugh in front of my literalboss.“That sounds like a very sad way for him to live, doesn’t it?” I whisper back.
A muscle jumps in Grayson’s jaw, but there’s the faintest hint of amusement there, too. “I’m standing right here.”
“Yeah,” Penelope grins, kicking her legs against his stomach and back. “I know.”
She’s too damn cute.
We go inside, and somehow the afternoon settles into something that feels easy instead of painfully awkward. I’d been braced for the kind of meeting where I’m hyperaware of every word I say, every blink, every movement of my hands, but Penelope doesn’t permit that kind of tension to survive in her presence. She wants to know my favorite color, whether I like dogs, why grown-ups drink coffee, and whether I know any princesses personally.
I answer every question with the gravity it deserves.
