Cold is usually the enemy, but stress can be just as bad. And right now, between the fundraiser, the animals, the vendors, the donation goal, and one dangerously handsome man possibly bringing half the Italian Mafia to my sanctuary, my body has apparently decided we are under attack.
“Mama!”
I drop my hand from my face and turn to find Livy marching toward me with a paper cup in each hand and the kind of expression that tells me I’m about to be parented by someone who still asks me to check under her bed for spiders.
“You’re doing the finger thing,” she says.
“I am not doing the finger thing.”
“You were rubbing your hand and touching your nose.”
“Maybe my nose itched.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
She narrows her eyes.
I take the cup she holds out to me.
“What is this?”
“Warm tea,” she says. “Rory said coffee makes you shaky when you’re already nervous.”
“Rory talks too much.”
“Rory’s smart.” She points at the cup. “Drink.”
I take a sip because arguing with my daughter early in the morning feels like a battle I will not win. Warmth slides down my throat, and I hate that it helps almost immediately.
Livy smiles, smug as anything.
“There. Now your fingers won’t fall off before people get here.”
“That happened one time,” I mutter.
“Mama.”
“Fine. Too dark?”
“A little.”
“Noted.”
She pats my arm, then turns like she has thirty employees and three board meetings to handle before lunch. Her fundraiser shirt hangs a little loose on her shoulders, the pale green fabric almost swallowing her whole, but she wears it proudly. The backsaysEvery Life Deserves Another Chance, and there’s a little hoofprint beneath it.
She designed that part herself.
“I’m checking the grooming station again,” she announces. “Sky sneezed on the brushes.”
“Sky sneezednearthe brushes.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s not.”
“She has germs.”
