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The door shut before I could bitch him out. My jaw clamped shut and ground hard enough to make my teeth squeak.
Unfazed, Sophie removed her hands from the dough and held them up so she could pick the excess off.
“Your dad’s a punk, did you know that?”
“I think we all are,” she said, sager than her years.
“Guess you’re not wrong. Ready to ball these up?”
“Mhmm.” She nodded, her smiling lips together, though the tip of her tongue stuck out just a little as she grabbed a wad of dough and shaped it into a sphere. “This size?” She held up the ball for my inspection.
“Looks good to me.”
Sophie set the dough ball in the bowl of cinnamon sugar and rolled it around before placing it on the cookie sheet next to her and went for another. “I think Daisy should be your girlfriend too.”
“My dating life is none of your beeswax, nosy Rosy.”
She gave me a look.
“Don’t gimme that face.”
“You should have a girlfriend so I can have cousins.”
“Girlfriends don’t guarantee babies.”
“No, but it gets me closer.”
“Do you do this to all your uncles? How about your dad?”
“Yeah, but it’s more fun with you.” She lined up a dough ball and reached for another. “They laugh. You just get mad.”
“You think it’s funny when I’m mad, huh?”
“Not mad-mad. That’s kinda scary.”
I chuckled.
“I just don’t want you to be lonely.”
“How could I be lonely when I have you?”
“I’m eight, Uncle Keaton. You shouldn’t be hanging out with me.” That earned her an actual laugh from me, and she smiled, pleased with herself.
When the doorbell rang, her face shot open with joy.
“Traitor,” I muttered, grabbing a towel on my way to the door, steeling myself as I wiped off my hands.
Good thing I’d braced myself.
Daisy stood on my porch, inky black hair cut against the creamy porcelain of her skin, framing her face beneath bangs and her neck as it fell in waves, shining and lush. She’d worn a skirt today that went past her knees, satiny and pleated, her top tucked into the high waist. Nothing about it was revealing, and yet my eyes traced the shape of her bare arms, the curve of her hips, the fabric of her skirt swaying with the gentle breeze.
Her eyes were bright, widening in surprise at the sight of me, then shifting behind me, likely looking for my brother.
“Oh, hi, Keaton. I’m sorry to bother you on the weekend. Is Cole here? He asked me to come by with these contracts, though I don’t know why he needed them on a Saturday.”
I knew exactly why and blazed at his meddling. “He just ran out for an errand, but I can take them.” But when I reached out, I paused, remembering their buttery state, which was not fit to handle contracts. I glanced at them before lowering my hand. “Come on in. Just need to wash my hands.”
I moved out of the way, and as she passed, I caught the scent of fresh flowers and crisp soap. The slight waft was enough to make me salivate.
Sophie turned and waved a doughy hand at Daisy as we entered the kitchen.
“Hi, Sophie,” Daisy said, laughing. “Whatcha making?”
“Snickerdoodles,” she answered.
She looked me over, amused. “Well, that explains it. I never thought I’d catch sight of Keaton Meyer in a pink apron dusted with flour.”
“Pink isn’t just a girl’s color,” I noted from the sink where I washed my hands, trained well by Sophie, who nodded emphatically. She was also responsible for said apron. Nothing like a child challenging the masculinity of the men in this house to get us into pink.
“You know, I’ve thought the same thing.” She set the papers on the counter and paused, seeming to debate what to do next, one foot toward the door.
“Come help me make cookies, Daisy,” Sophie said. “But wash your hands first.”
Daisy opened her mouth to answer, but glanced to me for a signal. A slight nod gave her permission. Saying no would have started a negotiation with Sophie that I was certain to lose.
“All right,” Daisy said, making her way around the island and toward the sink. “I think I can stay for a minute.”
“You have to stay for thirteen minutes,” Sophie noted. “That way you can eat a cookie.”
“How can I say no?”
“You can’t,” Sophie answered with a know-it-all smile.
Under her breath, Daisy said, “She’s good.”
I chuckled, moving out of the way as I dried off my hands. “Too good, if you ask me. That kid is either going to end up the dictator of a small country or a bank robber. It’s a toss-up.”
Laughing, Daisy washed her hands, and I couldn’t help but watch her long fingers as she did the most mundane of things.
I handed her the towel when she was finished, and after thanking me, she strode to Sophie.
