Gretchen glanced up at me with big brown eyes. “Watermelons are ninety-two percent water. That’s a lot of water, don’t you think?”
“A ton.” I whistled in astonishment. “I heard humans are made mostly of water, too.”
“How much?”
I should have known that question would be next. “I’m not sure. Maybe sixty percent?”
“I’d check my phone for exact measurements, but my hands are gooey.” She held them up as evidence and giggled at my faux-horrified expression.
“And very…blue. Like a Smurf.”
“What’s a Smurf?”
“What’s a Smurf?” I repeated, truly horrified this time. “Are you pulling my leg?”
Gretch glanced at my leg on cue and shook her head. “Nope.”
It was an old joke, but it made us both laugh.
“Well…Smurfsis a cartoon. The reruns were a staple of my childhood. I loved those little guys. They were all blue, and they lived in a cute little village. The details are fuzzy after that.”
“Oh. The batter is purple. Will the donuts be purple?”
“Yep.” I pulled a batch I’d worked on earlier from a proofing drawer and motioned for Gretchen to wash her hands. “Let’s shape these and get them in the fryer so you can decorate a couple before your mom picks you up.”
“I think Dad’s picking me up today.” Gretchen lowered her voice and continued conspiratorially. “I’m not supposed to know, but Mom’s going on a date tonight.”
“Ah. Okay.” We shaped dough in silence for a few minutes. Curiosity was killing me—however, I would not stoop to gossiping with a nine-year-old.
“His name is Steve. They say they’re just friends, but I can tell she likes him.”
“Uh…that’s good.”
Gretch hummed in agreement. “Do you like anyone?”
Viggo’s grumpy mug instantly flashed to mind. As much as I wanted to downplay that rogue peck on the cheek, I wasn’t prone to doling out kisses to grouchy guys who got my motor running. Quite the opposite. I’d grown up a closeted jock. I hadn’t come out till I was in college, and I could count my male lovers on one hand. Which meant…there was something about the lumberjack.
Not that I’d be sharing that with a nine-year-old.
“No. And I’d rather hear about Steve.” So much for not gossiping.
“He’s really nice. I think he has kids, and that makes it complicated.”
I chuckled lightly at her mature summation, which was probably a direct quote she’d overheard while eavesdropping. “Why?”
She shrugged. “They’re teenagers and they like sports. I won’t have anything in common with them.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Well, I know I don’t want any more brothers. I only want Rhys. Ivy and Chase’s mom has a new baby who’s their stepbrother. Meh…babies.”
“What’s wrong with babies?” I asked casually.
Another shrug, Gretchen’s brows knit tight as she concentrated on her donut. “They smell funny, they can’t talk, and they cry a lot. I’d rather have Tate.”
“What ifIhad a kid someday? Do you think you’d like him or her?”
Gretchen froze and met my gaze. “This is a hypothetical question?”
