Page 70 of Manhattan Kiss

Deacon shoots me a look that says can you believe the sass? And I do my best not to laugh.

“How about I talk you through the basics?” I offer.

“Can you do French braids?” Willow asks.

“They’re my favorite,” I say. “I do my goddaughter’s hair all the time. And my own.”

“You can French braid your own hair?” she asks.

“Absolutely. That’s how I learned. Do you have a bobble?” I ask.

“A bobble?” Willow says in a funny voice. “What’s a bobble?”

“To fix the end,” I say. “Is bobble a British term?” I ask, amused. I’ve never thought about it.

“You’ll be surprised which words are different,” Deacon says.

The nanny hands Deacon a brush and a bobble, and he sighs, almost accepting defeat before we’ve even started.

“You’re going to be fine,” I say, trying to reassure him. “Willow, you sit here on this stool,” I say, pulling a stool from under the counter.

Deacon’s expression suggests he’s about to dive into certain death.

I laugh and nod at Willow’s hair. “Just brush it through first. Get all the tangles out.”

He works diligently, making sure he’s gentle so Willow doesn’t yelp. Her hair is dark blonde with beautiful waves.

“Good,” I say. “I want you to part the hair in horizontal sections about three centimeters apart starting from the top.” I step forward and show him how the hair divides up in horizontal sections down the head. “You’re just going to be adding a new section in with the hair you already have each time. Does that make sense?”

He looks like I’ve just asked him to solve some kind of quantum equation.

“Start with the top section. It’s like slicing the top off a boiled egg.” I show him what I’m talking about and then encourage him to copy me.

“An egg?” he asks, giving me a look that tells me he thinks I’m crazy.

“Just go with it,” I say. “Now divide it into three.”

His huge hands trying to juggle the soft strands of his daughter’s hair is absolutely adorable. I’m sure the nanny can plait hair easily, but Deacon wants to be the kind of dad who knows how.

It lifts up my heart. He’s such a good dad. A good man.

“Now, slice the next layer of egg and add it to the strand on your left.”

“You’re all about the egg,” he says.

I start to laugh. “What can I say? I’m omega crazy.”

He smirks, and then as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t, suddenly refocuses on the puzzle in front of him.

“That’s it,” I say, encouragingly. “Keep close to the head. Don’t pull the plait toward you, because then you get bunching at the sides.”

He looks confused.

“Just trust me.”

He reaches the bottom of Willow’s head, producing a beautiful French braid. He turns to me, a look of surprise on his face.

“Really good,” I say. “Now just plait to the end normally.”