Page 5
CHAPTER ONE
Dean – Six Years Later
“Braids, Daddy.”
Even standing on a step stool, Ella’s head is awfully far down for me to reach easily. Mornings before school are doing more to make my back ache than playing ball ever did.
She’s twisting from side to side in front of the mirror, fiddling with the plate of food in front of her but not actually eating. Waffles with peanut butter and apple slices. So far, all I’ve gotten into her is one apple slice.
Basically, another day that ends in Y. Glimpsing my frustrated frown in the mirror over the sink, I try to fix my face before she sees.
“I’ve told you, baby. Daddy can’t handle braids. My fingers are too big.” After too many failed attempts, I’ve finally managed a pretty cute set of puffs, if I do say so myself, decorated with the butterfly clips I got her for Christmas.
Seriously, I’ve watched a million braiding tutorials online. I’ve practiced on some of Ella’s dolls. Aside from the hair texture being all wrong, I accidentally stripped one of ‘em bald. Another I left with hair so knotted she’ll never be right again.
Much as I want to turn my girl’s frown upside-down, I’d sooner disappoint her than damage her beautiful hair.
“Uncle Mike said he knows a person who can do them.”
Uncle Mike said. “One of these days, baby. It’s not in the budget right now. Besides, you’d have to sit for a real long time. You didn’t even want to sit through the entire My Little Pony movie.”
With one hand, I’m trying to finish putting a clip in the right place. With the other I’m frantically checking the time on my phone. I’ve got an escorting client expecting me, and mornings always seem to scream past me while I’m busy trying to figure out what to do next.
My stomach churns. Setting down the phone to open the medicine cabinet, I upend a bottle of antacids until a few land in my mouth. Doesn’t do a thing for the constant icy pressure under my ribs, but it’s something.
“I promise I’d sit still for the braids. Daddy, Nina at school got them with little beads and they look so pretty.”
With a sigh, I reach around and pick up the peanut butter waffle from her plate, aiming it toward her mouth. After I’ve waved it in front of her face for a few seconds, she leans forward to take a bite, too busy fiddling with the toy in her hand to actually take the waffle from me.
“You’re beautiful the way you are, princess. And look how good Daddy’s getting with your hair.”
She crosses her arms over the front of her favorite penguin shirt. The little frown I’ve gotten used to makes an appearance. Lips pushed out in an almost pout, forehead all scrunched up. She’s been making that face since she was born. Lately, she’s added a nose crinkle. She’s frustrated with me, but I’ve noticed she doesn’t like to argue. It’s both a blessing and a curse.
“Let’s see… Where did I put that finishing spray?” It’s on the window shelf, but I’m trying to distract her.
Pretending to search high and low, I open and close cabinets and doors while she rolls her eyes and says, “Daddy, it’s up there.”
I look up at the ceiling. “Up where?”
“Over there. Daddy.” She pats my shoulder while I pretend to search the cabinet again, managing to bang my head on the door in the process. “Daddy. Over there. On the window shelf.”
“Oh! Whew. Okay.” When I turn to grab it, I do an exaggerated slow circle. “Well I’ve got the spray, but now I can’t find Ella. Where did she go?”
The frown deepens. “Daddy, I don’t like when you pretend I’m invisible.”
“Sorry, princess. Won’t do that anymore.” Hardly ever can get her to laugh, but I swear I work harder at it than I ever worked at anything.
She’s got the prettiest laugh, though. Just the cutest little-girl giggle. Like, I don’t know, if laughter were popcorn? I’d kill to hear it more.
I’m spritzing her head when out beyond the living room the front door opens and closes. My already aching back tightens, my shoulders bunching at the sound of “Uncle Mike’s” deep “Good morning.”
“Uncle Mike! We’re in here.”
Forcing a smile, I say, “Eat your breakfast, sweetheart.”
She gives me a look, and yeah, even I can even hear my usual patience has turned tail and run.
“Ella. Please eat. Daddy worked hard on this.” Picking up the waffle, I hold it in front of her until she finally takes it from me and takes another bite. “Uncle Mike made the waffles. You just toasted it and added peanut butter,” she mumbles.
