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“I guess that’s okay.” Her voice carries a hint of disappointment as she frowns. “But they have to be able to do fishtail braids.”
“I’ll do my best, but fishtail braids are a complex hairstyle. Even I can’t do that one,” I say as I run a hand over her hair.
When Lola was a baby, my sister Presley was adamant that I learn how to do various hairstyles, so when the time came, Lola wouldn’t go to school with a lopsided ponytail every day.
Mom and Presley were my guinea pigs, and when Lola finally had hair long enough to style, I was proficient in most hairstyles. Except fishtail braids, much to Lola’s dismay. No matter how many times I’ve practiced that style, it always turns into a tangled mess.
She smirks. “Marlow can do them.”
I chuckle at her attempt to redirect the conversation. “You’re right, but I’m sure there are plenty of nannies who can too. We just have to find one.”
Something tells me that it wouldn’t be a good idea to be that close to Marlow every day, especially not after the incident earlier this afternoon. I glance down at the smudge of red paint still on my finger. I should have scrubbed it off while washing up for dinner, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Being around her has been messing with my head lately, solidifying my decision to avoid a situation where we’d see each other more than we already do.
“Daddy?”
Lola’s muffled voice sounds like it’s coming from a tunnel. The faint sound of an alarm goes off in the distance, and there’s an odd pressure against my forehead.
“Daddy, are you awake?”
Lola’s voice is louder this time. I slowly pry one eye open and find her standing next to me with her hand pressed against my forehead and her face scrunched into a serious expression.
“Ladybug, what are you doing?” I ask in a groggy tone.
“I’m checking your temperature.”
I chuckle at her intense concentration. “Why?”
“I thought you might be sick since you’re still in bed.”
I jolt upright, the sound of my alarm finally registering. Panic sets in as I snatch my phone off the nightstand and see that it’s already 8:00 a.m.
“Shi—crap on a cracker.” One unexpected challenge of being a parent is that no one tells you how difficult it is not to swear in front of your kid. I usually catch myself, but occasionally, an accidental curse word slips out when I’m distracted.
Just last month, Lola’s principal called me into her office and asked me to explain why my daughter shouted dammit when she bumped her knee on a table during playtime. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a good excuse, but I assured her I’d talk with Lola about it and would do my best to make sure it didn’t happen again.
I jump out of bed and sprint to my walk-in closet, grabbing the first pair of sweatpants within reach and throw on a black hoodie I find on a nearby shelf.
“Daddy, why aren’t you wearing a suit today?” Lola asks when I come back into the bedroom.
I smile, amused at her observation, given that I rarely leave the house in anything other than a three-piece suit. “Since we’re running late, I’m going to drop you off at school first, and then I’ll come home and get ready for work.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea.” She gives me a thumbs up. “Ms. Thornberry gets mad when we’re late.”
“We wouldn’t want to upset Ms. Thornberry now, would we?”
“Nope.” She rapidly shakes her head.
Thankfully, she’s already dressed for school—a perk of raising a self-sufficient six-year-old who insists on choosing her own outfits.
I shoot my brothers a text, telling them I’ll be late logging on this morning. Harrison won’t be happy, considering we have an urgent matter to discuss related to the Vanburen project, but he knows Lola comes first.
“Let’s do your hair, and then we’ll head out. Sound like a plan?”
Lola nods in agreement, running to the bathroom, and I follow her.
I’m relieved she doesn’t complain when I pull her long blonde hair into a high ponytail.
