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“You’re my new nanny,” she says with only a hint of bitterness.
“I am. I heard you’ve had a few.”
“Only four,” she mutters.
“How old are you, Sophie?”
“Nine.”
“Wow. You’re practically grown up. I doubt you even need a nanny.”
“That’s whatIsaid,” she huffs. “I can take care of myself.”
“Of course.” I nod seriously before leaning in closer to lower my voice. “Between you and me... I just needed some company. I don’t have many friends. Practically had to beg your dad to give me the job, you know?”
Sophie looks suspicious, her lips pressed together for a good number of moments before she finally casts her eyes down to the countertop. “I don’t have a lot of friends either.”
“Well... we could be friends. Maybe? What do you think?”
Sophie looks me up and down, seeming to consider. “You’re pretty,” she says finally.
“Not as pretty as you,” I gush. “Look at those freckles!”
Sophie narrows her eyes. “Freckles aren’t pretty.”
“You’re right,” I sigh as I prop my fists on my hips. “They’regorgeous.”
Sophie rolls her eyes, but there’s a bit of a smile at her mouth as she does it. I notice she doesn’t have the same condition as her dad, but her eyes are the same soft green of his right eye, complementing the pretty shade of her hair. She’s adorable now, but I can already tell she’s going to be a real knockout when she gets older. Seriously, thegenes.
“Right,” I say again. “So let’s clean up your first attempt, shall we?”
Aiden still looks utterly dumbfounded, like he still can’t believe he could have messed up such a universally known thing at his level of culinary prowess, but silently trudges to that same slim cabinet to pull out a broom and a wet mop.
“Sorry,” he tells me. “We really did want to try and do something nice.”
I shrug, pulling the elastic from my wrist and reaching to tie up my hair. “It’s fine. Sophie and I have got this, right?”
“Why do I have to help?”
“I need a capable assistant if I’m going to make pancakes,” I say seriously. “You look like the perfect girl for the job.”
She still doesn’t look like she trusts me very much, but her desire for pancakes must exceed her wariness of me, and she tentatively hops from the barstool to cautiously cross the kitchen to stand beside me. “I guess so.”
She absolutely doesn’t smile.
I like her already.
—
The second attempt at pancakes goes much smoother than the first, the mess cleared away and one very large chef (but not pancake maker) and his little mini me humming around syrup and cake.
“These are so good,” Sophie gushes. “Dad never gets them right. They’re always too mushy.”
“Oh, so youdolike them,” Aiden snorts. He looks down at the pancakes like they’ve offended him. “I should buy an actual mixer.”
I smile around my fork. “How do you not own a mixer?”
“I don’t bake a lot.”
