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I pushed away from the desk, the wheels on the old office chair squeaking. “How about now?”
Her face lit up, and she shouted, “Yay! Gray! Gray!” She ran from the room, presumably to the living room at the end of the hall, where I’d planted my son in front of the TV so I could steal a couple hours of work.
Father of the Year.
Footsteps thumped down the hall. Grayson skidded to a stop, and I blew out a hard breath. His hair stood up in all directions. The peanut butter from his breakfast PB&J was still smeared across his face. His red-and-blue Spider-Man pajamas were the cherry on top of my shit sundae. Afternoon quiet time had come and gone, and both kids were still in jammies.
I’d forgotten all about lunch. “Go get changed and clean up.”
Ivy spun behind Grayson, her skirt twirling out. “Can you braid my hair? Please, Daddy?”
When she called me Daddy, it reminded me of my sister, Aggie, and how she referred to our father. There had been nothing paternal about Barnaby Knight. My three brothers and I had called him Barns because Mama had called him Barns, and to us he was a scary overlord turned dictator. Every time my kids referred to me as Daddy, I wondered how I’d feel if they called me some version of Alcott. Would they use the nickname “Cody” like my family and what few friends I had did?
“Daddy?” She did a curtsy, her tiny foot tapping the floor behind her. Losing her balance, she skittered out of view and popped back in.
The braid. Goddammit. “Honey, you know I can’t braid hair.” Nothing made me feel like I had Goliath fingers and zero dexterity like doing Ivy’s hair. How quickly fatherhood had wilted my ego.
“Can you try?” She batted her lashes.
How the fuck did they learn that tactic so early?
Letting out a quiet sigh, I caved. “G, I’ll help Ivy with her hair while you wash your face and change clothes.”
“What’s wrong with these?” Grayson’s voice pitched higher, offended.
“They’re pajamas,” I said firmly. “We’re going out, and we don’t wear pajamas outside of the house.”
“We do for pajama day at school.”
The kid might become a lawyer like his mother. “Go change.”
Huffing, he trudged away, his little feet pounding on the stairs, followed by Ivy’s patter as she raced to her bedroom.
My phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen. A work call, and technically I was in the office. I needed to take the call.
Closing the door, I spoke as if I were in my office in the house where I’d grown up. A place that hadn’t heard many jubilant kids’ voices ringing off the walls.
Within minutes of discussing Knight’s Oil Wells’ purchase of four oil wells in Wyoming from a company that would rather divert their resources to fracking new locations, there was a knock on the door.
“Da-addyyyy. Braaaaaiiiid.”
The guy on the other end paused. I briefly closed my eyes. Some of these corporate guys could be sticklers about what they considered professional, and my daughter shouting about braids wouldn’t make the cut. For the thousandth time, I considered how badly I’d fucked up by working from home. Should I load us up and go back to Montana? Put the kids in daycare and work in the office at the ranch?
“Listen, can you send me the details, and I’ll talk it over with my team?” I had no fucking team. If Barns were alive, he’d growl,Buy the damn wells. Next oil boom, we’ll be raking in the money while they’re left on their fracking asses.
The last oil boom was because of fracking, but the argument had fallen on uncaring ears. Regardless, we’d done just fine, cashing in on barrel prices with our refurbished wells and minimal crew.
When the call was disconnected, Ivy was shouting for me again. I opened the door. “Ivy, what have I told you about when the door’s closed? It usually means I’m on the phone.”
She shrugged and pranced away, unbothered. I followed her to the bathroom off the living room. I was trashing my third busted hair tie—whothe hellthought they should be so small?—when Grayson popped in, face cleaned, shorts and a Spider-Man shirt on, and his hair still a mess.
My gaze lingered on his shirt, and my late wife’s words ran through my head.Just because we live in the sticks doesn’t mean the kids should dress like it. I grew up wearing a private school uniform, and they can at least wear something that doesn’t have someone’s face on it.
The more she’d complain, I swear, the more licensed clothing my siblings got the kids.
“Don’t you have a clean polo?” I asked.
He spread his hands flat on his shirt. “What’s wrong with this?” His voice wavered.
