“Next!” I say, choosing self-preservation and hightailing it down the hall.
“These two rooms are a little bigger,” he says, peering over my shoulder, “and share a Jack and Jill bath.” Wyatt crosses the room, opening the door to the bathroom, which contains a tub-shower combo and all of his manly soaps and shampoos. There’s even a towel draped over the curtain rod and a little steam still fogging the mirror. Hah. I knew he wasn’t fitting his ass in that tub. “Prissy can have her choice, or even both, until we have to free up the nursery again.”
“Sounds like you plan on keeping your future wife busy.”
He waggles his brows. “I promise, I’ll leave no room for complaints.”
Well, then.
Having Whitney and Prissy here in my space feels right.
Two months doesn’t seem like a lot of time—certainly not enough to be envisioning forever with a person. Neither does it seem sufficient to be prepared to commit to taking on a six-year-old child. But every move I make, every change, every addition to this old house, is with them in mind—much to my Mimi’s displeasure.
My grandmother’s worried I’m moving too fast. She says I need to slow down and stop letting my emotions lead. But I know that once she has the chance to meet the new ladies in my life, she’ll be just as smitten as I am.
“Shhhh!” I say when Miss Priss comes thundering in with Rufus following closely behind. “She fell asleep.” I point to the living room, where Whitney is curled up snoring on the sectional.
“Sorry.” She scrunches her shoulders. “Wanna see what I taught Sprinkles?”
I look around to see what the heck she’s talking about. Did she find a new pet in the woods?
“Just watch,” she orders, grabbing a handful of treats from the jar on the counter that was so full it could barely close this morning and is now damn near empty. “Sprinkles, sit!”
My usually obstinate pup obediently plops his ass on the floor, wagging his tail as he stares at her expectantly.
“Good boy,” Prissy praises, placing a Milkbone on his tongue and giving him a scrub behind the ears.
“What did you just call him?”
“Rufus is a stupid name,” she says with a shrug.
I choke on air. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. What even is a Rufus anyway?”
“A name,” I answer. “A manly name for a manly dog.”
“He looks like vanilla ice cream with chocolate sprinkles. It had to be changed.”
“You can’t just change a dog’s name. He’s eight months old. He likes his name. He knows it.”
“Does he?” she asks, arching a brow. Jesus, she looks so much like her mother right now it’s almost scary.
“Rufus.” I whistle. “Come here boy.”
He lets out a whimper, but stays rooted in place, his eyes trained on the girl with the snacks.
“Sprinkles, come.” Priss points to the floor.
That traitor rises to all fours, looking more regal than Queen Elizabeth herself as he marches to her side. Man’s best friend, my ass.
“Good boy,” she says, stuffing another treat into his mouth. “Sprinkles, sit.”
He sits.
“Shake,” she says, holding out her hand for his paw.
“You taught him all of that in less than two hours?”
“Uh-huh. Wasn’t hard. I watched some dog training videos.”
“Let me guess, YouTube?”
She grins. “Well, it worked.”
“I see that.”
“So…Sprinkles?” She steeples her hands in front of her face, poking out her lip for added drama.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of how my beast of a dog became a pansy.
“You’re a disgrace,” I grumble at the pooch while nodding my head at the little girl. “Guess I can’t change what’s already done.”
She beams, wrapping her arms around my waist. “I’ve always wanted a dog. Think maybe we can share yours?”
What I think is I’d find a way to give this child the fucking moon if she asked for it. “Don’t see why not.”
“Thanks, Wyatt. You’re the best!”
“I try.”
“Hey,” she says, disentangling herself. “You don’t have a tree.”
I can hardly keep up with the kid and the way she jumps from one topic straight into a new one. “A what?” I ask, staring through the still open door. “I have a yard full of them.”
“A Christmas tree, Wyatt.”
“Oh.” Well, she’s got me there.
“It’s in three weeks, you know? Where’s Santa gonna leave Sprinkles’s presents?” The disapproval in her tone has me ready to right this misstep immediately.
“That’s because I was…waiting for you and your momma to help me. It’s no fun putting a tree up all alone.”
“Really?” she squeals. “Where is it? In the attic?”
“The tree lot.”
She frowns.
“Come on,” I say, motioning for her to follow. I grab the keys from the hook and my wallet from the counter, slipping it into my back pocket on my way to the living room.
“Hey,” I say, squatting beside the woman sawing wood on my couch. I can smell the alcohol still seeping from her pores when I give her shoulder a gentle shake.
“Huh?” She jumps with a start, nearly rolling to the floor. I give her a moment to orient herself while her daughter practically pisses herself laughing.
“Is it okay if I take Priss with me to the store?”
“Uh, yeah…sure,” she says, wiping the drool from her chin with the back of a hand. “Want me to come?”
“Nah. We won’t be long. Rest up for tonight.”
Shopping with a kid is an adventure. An expensive adventure.
Three stores and nearly four hours later, we come trudging back into the house with our arms overflowing with bags and a monstrous tree strapped down in the bed of the truck.
“What’s all this?”
“I could ask the same question,” I counter when I find Whitney wide awake, whipping up an impressive spread of breakfast for dinner.
She shrugs, “Didn’t know what to do with myself when I got up. This was the best I could do for a meal. You didn’t have much to work with.” Her eyes widen, like she’s just come to some major realization. “I hope you weren’t planning on us going out to eat.” She starts nibbling on her lip, making the vision before me even more tempting.
“This is so much better than anything I had planned,” I assure her, because damn, seeing this woman scrambling eggs and frying up bacon on my stove feels like a little preview of the domesticated life I’ve been fantasizing about lately.
“Planning on doing some decorating?” she asks, peeking into the bags.
“We’re gonna do it!” Prissy says, dropping the lot she’s carrying to the floor. “Wyatt was waiting for us to come over to put up his tree.”
“Was he now?” she asks, eying me skeptically.
“I was,” I readily agree, fighting the urge to kiss that knowing smile off her face. It’s getting harder to behave myself when her little girl’s around. Now that she’s gotten comfortable with me touching her, it’s a constant urge.