“Girlfriends don’t guarantee babies.”
“No, but it gets me closer.”
“Do you do this to all your uncles? How about your dad?”
“Yeah, but it’s more fun with you.” She lined up a dough ball and reached for another. “They laugh. You just get mad.”
“You think it’s funny when I’m mad, huh?”
“Not mad-mad. That’s kinda scary.”
I chuckled.
“I just don’t want you to be lonely.”
“How could I be lonely when I have you?”
“I’m eight, Uncle Keaton. You shouldn’t be hanging out with me.” That earned her an actual laugh from me, and she smiled, pleased with herself.
When the doorbell rang, her face shot open with joy.
“Traitor,” I muttered, grabbing a towel on my way to the door, steeling myself as I wiped off my hands.
Good thing I’d braced myself.
Daisy stood on my porch, inky black hair cut against the creamy porcelain of her skin, framing her face beneath bangs and her neck as it fell in waves, shining and lush. She’d worn a skirt today that went past her knees, satiny and pleated, her top tucked into the high waist. Nothing about it was revealing, and yet my eyes traced the shape of her bare arms, the curve of her hips, the fabric of her skirt swaying with the gentle breeze.
Her eyes were bright, widening in surprise at the sight of me, then shifting behind me, likely looking for my brother.
“Oh, hi, Keaton. I’m sorry to bother you on the weekend. Is Cole here? He asked me to come by with these contracts, though I don’t know why he needed them on a Saturday.”
I knew exactly why and blazed at his meddling. “He just ran out for an errand, but I can take them.” But when I reached out, I paused, remembering their buttery state, which was not fit to handle contracts. I glanced at them before lowering my hand. “Come on in. Just need to wash my hands.”
I moved out of the way, and as she passed, I caught the scent of fresh flowers and crisp soap. The slight waft was enough to make me salivate.
Sophie turned and waved a doughy hand at Daisy as we entered the kitchen.
“Hi, Sophie,” Daisy said, laughing. “Whatcha making?”
“Snickerdoodles,” she answered.
She looked me over, amused. “Well, that explains it. I never thought I’d catch sight of Keaton Meyer in a pink apron dusted with flour.”
“Pink isn’t just a girl’s color,” I noted from the sink where I washed my hands, trained well by Sophie, who nodded emphatically. She was also responsible for said apron. Nothing like a child challenging the masculinity of the men in this house to get us into pink.
“You know, I’ve thought the same thing.” She set the papers on the counter and paused, seeming to debate what to do next, one foot toward the door.
“Come help me make cookies, Daisy,” Sophie said. “But wash your hands first.”
Daisy opened her mouth to answer, but glanced to me for a signal. A slight nod gave her permission. Saying no would have started a negotiation with Sophie that I was certain to lose.
“All right,” Daisy said, making her way around the island and toward the sink. “I think I can stay for a minute.”
“You have to stay for thirteen minutes,” Sophie noted. “That way you can eat a cookie.”
“How can I say no?”
“You can’t,” Sophie answered with a know-it-all smile.
Under her breath, Daisy said, “She’s good.”
I chuckled, moving out of the way as I dried off my hands. “Too good, if you ask me. That kid is either going to end up the dictator of a small country or a bank robber. It’s a toss-up.”
Laughing, Daisy washed her hands, and I couldn’t help but watch her long fingers as she did the most mundane of things.
I handed her the towel when she was finished, and after thanking me, she strode to Sophie.
“I’m ready for work, Miss Sophie. Show me what to do.”
For a few minutes, they rolled dough until the pan was full, then smashed them flat with the ancient glass we always used, the starburst in the glass imprinting on the cookie top. And then they sprinkled cinnamon-sugar on top, and Daisy slid them into the oven.
Sophie then set the egg timer for thirteen minutes and stepped off her little stool with a smile that could only be classified as mischievous.
“I need to go upstairs for a minute,” she said as she untied her apron. “Promise you’ll tell me when the alarm goes off.”
Holding my hand up in Boy Scout honor, I said, “Promise.”
And off she trotted.
I shook my head, wriggling against the manipulation and unsure what to do with myself. I wished it was as simple as Cole seemed to think. I wished I was a normal guy with a normal life who could do things like ask somebody like Daisy out. But I wasn’t. Problem was, convincing my brothers I wasn’t interested in her was becoming a full time job. They knew better, and as such, they might never let it go.
The only thing to do was pretend being friends was a viable solution.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” I asked.
“That would be nice,” she answered.
Thankful for something to do other than stare at her, I headed for the coffee pot and began assembly.
“Fifteen-year high school reunion, huh?” she said from behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder to see her smiling, her fingertips on the invitation laying on the island counter.
“Reunion.” I humphed. “Like we don’t all see each other every time we leave the house. What do we need to have a reunion for?” My heart squeezed on imagining it. Pictures of the homecoming king and queen, me and Mandy, all blown up for everybody to see. They always crowned the old king and queen. Except she was gone, and I was alone. “No thanks,” I tacked on to the end, scooping grounds into the filter.
She chuckled. “Gosh, you were a star back then. I went to every football game, watched you play all senior year.”
“Every game?”
“I was a band kid, so yup.”
I caught myself smiling. “Forgot about that.”
“It’s all right, Keaton,” she teased. “You don’t have to pretend like you knew who I was.”
“Of course I knew who you were. Everybody knew you. How else would I have known you played the …” I reached for a second, finally landing on, “trumpet.”
“French horn,” she said as I filled up the pot.
“Damn. I knew it was brass.” Now that she’d said it, I could even recall watching her at a school assembly with her hand in the bell and her lips behind the mouthpiece. Every hot-blooded straight guy I knew had noted her.
“Imagine that. Keaton Meyer knew my name. Good thing nobody told me back then. I might have died on the spot.”
“Wouldn’t want that.”
“I mean, I would have died happy, if it’s any consolation.”
“That so?” A smile brushed my lips, unbidden. When I started the pot, I turned and walked back to her, leaning against the other side of the island.
She rolled her eyes, her cheeks flushed. “Don’t act like you didn’t know everybody had a crush on you.”