Page 120 of Slapshot Bride

“Such a smart girl, aren’t you?” I lift her into my arms and ruffle her hair. She bursts into giggles, filling my ears with the melodious sounds.

A minute later, she crawls back to her work, and I quietly watch her.

Easton walks in from his afternoon meeting to find Emma sitting on my chest on the couch, squishing my cheeks between her small palms while she tells me a story about a frog who’s lost his hat.

“Hey… It’s my two favorite girls.”

We look up, and a grin is on his face.

My heart skips. The sight of Easton grinning from ear to ear, with eyes lighting up, has me grinning, and for a second, it feels so real.

Like it’s our own little family.

My chest squeezes at the reality of those words, but I don’t stay too deep in my thoughts. The sound of Emma giggling pulls me back.

He’s picked her up from my chest, settled into the couch beside me, and they’re now in the same position he found us.

I stay still, just watching them, and when our eyes meet, I immediately look away.

“I… need to get water,” I blurt.

I end up in the kitchen faster than ever because watching Easton Blake let a three-year-old mold his face like clay while he asks follow-up questions about a fictional frog’s hat situation has my head conjuring different images and thoughts I’m not ready to process fully.

Not today. And maybe not ever.

Maybe? Is it really that bad?

Okay, maybe I truly need that glass of water to set my head straight.

When I return, it’s with my camera. I tell myself it’s to distract my mind, but deep down, I want to keep the memories alive. Something to look back at when it ends.

And that’s how I end up with forty pictures of Emma and Easton in different poses, and a few of us taken by Easton.

Dinner time arrives, and it’s a whole negotiation.

Emma wants pasta. Easton starts making pasta. Emma then decides she wants it with only butter, no sauce, and the butter has to be melted all the way through with no lumps. Easton stands at the stove adjusting the heat with the same focused expression he wears watching game tape, and I have to press my lips together to keep from smiling.

He remembers, without being told, that she eats better when her pasta is cut into smaller pieces. He does it.

I turn back to the garlic bread I’m baking before he can catch me staring.

After dinner, we watch a movie Emma picks, which is forty-five minutes of animated penguins doing things that make very little sense but that Emma finds deeply entertaining and funny.

She plants herself between us on the couch with her stuffed rabbit in her lap, and about twenty minutes in, she leans sideways, puts her head on my arm, and goes still.

I look down at her.

Easton reaches over without looking and adjusts the blanket over her, tucking it around her small shoulders.

The penguin movie keeps going. Emma keeps sleeping. The house is warm and quiet. I stare at Easton. His eyes are on the TV.

He’s not bothered. He seems really comfortable, sharing a blanket with Emma and I. Like it’s the most natural thing to do.

God, Riley, you’re too emotional. You read into everything. You make something out of nothing every single time.

I breathe out slowly.

“You okay?” Easton says, low enough not to wake her.