Page 33

“That’s a good question,” I say, looking at my mate. “Where were you hiding?”

“I wasn’t hiding. You hadn’t found me yet.”

“How did you find her?” Rosie asks.

Elsie suddenly becomes very interested in the strawberries.

I grin. “Well, one day, I was getting ready to go on a trip⁠—”

“Pyrce,” Elsie warns.

“—when someone knocked on my front door.”

Her head snaps up. “Knocked?”

“A very unusual kind of knock,” I amend.

Rosie’s eyes grow wide. “Was it Mommy?”

“It was.”

“Were you surprised?”

“Very.”

“Because I thought the house was empty,” Elsie says.

I snort. “So that made breaking in okay?”

Rosie gasps with delight. “Mommy broke into our house?”

“She tried.”

“I did break in,” Elsie argues. “You just happened to be standing on the other side of the door.”

I open the junk drawer beside me and dig beneath a collection of tape, crayons, batteries, and takeout menus. At the very back, wrapped in an old handkerchief, is the lock-picking set Elsie was holding that day.

I place it on the counter.

Elsie stares at me. “You kept that?”

“Of course I did.”

“Why?”

“It’s important.”

“It’s evidence,” she says with a laugh.

“It’s the reason I met you.”

Rosie reaches for it, but I slide it out of range.

“When I find my mate, I’m going to break into his house too,” she announces.

A growl rumbles through my chest before I can stop it. Rosie blinks at me, and Elsie bursts out laughing.

“You are not finding your mate until you’re at least forty,” I tell our daughter.