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“You’ve never been to my apartment.”
“Assuming,” he says quickly and adds, “it’s very feminine. Lots of pink. Is there a man cave around here for your husband?”
“I’m not married.”
“Ainsley’s dad lives far?”
“She doesn’t have one.”
Luke looks back at me with a discerning stare, and I shiver. There’s a small draft that comes in through the playroom window. I get up and make sure the window is closed tight. I shift the conversation back in his direction.
“Your place was rather devoid of a feminine quality. Surprised Stella didn’t add some floral pillows or something.”
“Surprised myself.”
Ainsley is back with the teapot, along with her milk and sugar play set. “Would you like some sugar?”
Luke accepts but holds his hand up in refusal of the milk. “I don’t take milk in my tea. Real or pretend.”
“Me neither. Gives me a tummy ache. That’s why I only serve almond milk at my tea parties.” She lifts her palm up in the air, like the sassy child she is. “It’s only my favorite with French vanilla in it.”
“Chocolate almond milk is even better.”
Ainsley’s eyes widen at me. “You never told me there’s chocolate almond milk!”
“You have enough treats in your life,” I explain.
She leans into Luke and whispers rather loudly, “She won’t even let me drink soda.”
He lifts a brow and gives me a bemused look. “You don’t say.”
Ainsley places a hand on her hip. “She hates it and says it rots your teeth. I really want to try the black soda. My friend Hunter said it’s so good and his mom lets him drink it at birthday parties.”
Luke leans back with his arms crossed. “I bet your mom drinks soda on the sly when no one is looking.”
I clear my throat, interrupting their powwow. Luke smiles at me. My stare back is a reprimanding one.
“What?” he asks with a laugh as Ainsley runs back to her play kitchen.
“No one gives away my secret soda obsession.” My scolding is in a loud whisper.
“Good to know I have blackmail.”
I scrunch my nose at him as she reappears with plates.
While she serves us, something on the other side of the room catches Luke’s eye. There’s a floating bookshelf on the wall that I’ve recently rotated out with books appropriate for an emerging reader. The covers of the books face the room, as it’s a shallow shelf made for the covers to be displayed that way.
“That’s a pretty impressive book list up there. Are those all autobiographies?” he asks.
“Mommy got me a new book on some lady who wears a black cape and looks real mean.”
“Ruth Bader Ginsburg is a national treasure,” I defend. “I encourage her to read books on real-world icons. Preferably women.”
He gives an agreeable nod. “You need a book on Molly Williams. First female firefighter.”
Ainsley jumps up with her hands clasped together. “A girl fireman?”
“Molly Williams was a former slave in New York City, who bought her freedom and was braver than most men.”
