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"Wa!" she yells, glaring at me like I just ruined her life. "Wa!"

“See?” Goldie says, thoroughly entertained by my struggle to hold onto our squirming kid. “She wants the water.”

"She can want it from here," I say, shifting her weight higher against my chest so she doesn’t launch herself back into the foam. "She weighs twenty pounds and has no survival instincts."

Goldie falls into step beside me, saltwater dripping from her legs as we head up the beach. "She has some."

"She tried to eat a shell a couple of minutes ago."

Goldie looks over at Frankie like she’s going to defend her, but our daughter just grabs a fistful of my shirt, pulls it to her mouth, and starts gnawing on the fabric. A fresh patch of drool soaks right through to my collarbone.

Goldie bumps her shoulder against my arm. "Okay, fine. Her instincts are a work in progress."

We trudge through the soft, sugary sand toward our spot. We claimed one of the picnic pavilions early this morning, beating the crowds before every other family in St. Pete decided October still counts as summer. The breeze coming off the Gulf keeps the shade comfortable, but it hasn't stopped the chaos from taking over our table.

A plume of charcoal smoke drifts our way, carrying the smell of cooking meat from where my dads are stationed at the grill, deep in an argument over the best way to grill a burger. A few feet away from them, Scout, Tatum, Ellie, and Andie are crowded around a picnic table piled high with drinks, food, and enough birthday decorations to prove none of them listened when Goldie said a one-year-old didn’t need an over-the-top party.

Trace is stretched out in a beach chair a safe distance away from the girls, his hat pulled low over his eyes to block out the sun.

Colston jogs up from the water, swinging Frankie’s pink bucket in one hand and her little life jacket in the other.

My daughter spots him, and her entire face lights up like it always does when she sees him. She starts bouncing against my chest, throwing both arms out toward him.

“Co-Co!” she squeals.

Colston stops. His usual smirk vanishes, replaced by the soft, helpless look he gets whenever my daughter gives him the time of day. “Hey, Bug.”

Frankie lunges for him, babbling a string of nonsense like she has so much to tell him that she can’t keep any of it inside her little body. I have to clamp my arm around her waist so she doesn't nosedive straight into the sand. “Jesus.”

"My turn," Colston says, dropping everything in his hands and reaching for my little girl.

I hand her over. Colston settles Frankie against his hip like he's been doing it his whole life, adjusts the sun hat she’s been trying to rip off all day, and wipes a smear of sand from her cheek.

"Did the big bad water try to get you?" he asks her in a low, serious voice.

Frankie pats both of her hands against his face, grinning, and babbles another long, very serious sentence back at him.

I’ve spent a year watching this dynamic, and it still blows my mind. The guy who sprinted out of the hospital room because he was terrified of childbirth is now the ultimate baby whisperer. He knows exactly how to make her laugh, keeps an emergency stash of Goldfish crackers and applesauce in his G-Wagon, and worst of all, he somehow managed to rig the system so that her very first word wasn't "Mama" or "Dada."

It was "Co-Co."

Colston hasn't let Trace forget it for a single second since. Honestly, Frankie prefers him over just about everybody else.

Colston kisses Frankie's temple. A group of college-aged girls walking past us slow down to stare at him. Between the low-slung board shorts, messy blond hair, the abs, and the fact that he’s holding a baby who looks at him like he hung the moon, he’s basically a walking thirst trap.

He knows it, too.

He catches me watching him and raises an eyebrow as I shake my head at him.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just trying to figure out why my kid is so obsessed with you."

He snorts. "Because she has excellent taste."

"She ate a crayon yesterday."

"She spit most of it out," Colston argues, shifting Frankie higher on his hip. "We're working on her palate."