“Fine, okay. But if I end up looking like a clown—I mean—just take it easy. My dad’s going to make me wash mine off, too...”
She giggles and manhandles me onto the edge of the bed. I sit as she shifts behind me and quickly wraps my hair up beforeadding a claw clip. Half of my hair falls from it, but she doesn’t seem to notice as she instructs me to stay still.
Maisey drags her dresser chair close to me and stands on it. The palate lands in my hands and she gets to work. I close my eyes, letting the light touch of her brush drift over my face. Her soft fingertips graze my skin occasionally, reminding me how little she is.
She’s adorable.
Feisty and independent.
I love that for her.
I wish I had more Maisey in me and less... CC?
A girl could learn a lot from this little lady, as my dad calls her.
When I’m all done, she holds a mirror up to my face.
And I absolutely look like a drag queen.
I clear my throat and turn my head side to side as if assessing her makeup skills. “Brilliant, thank you.”
“You really like it?” I swear she’s holding her breath.
“I do.”
“We should show Daddy.”
“Oh, oh no. Maybe?—”
“Daddy!”
She’s off the stool and out the door a heartbeat later.
There’s nothing left to do but laugh. Maybe Maisey’s Christmas cheer is rubbing off on me, after all.
So I decide to run with it.
“You look pretty,” Quinton says, barely keeping a straight face.
“Why thank you, Mr. MacKelvie.” The words are loaded with sass, as if this is some 1920s black-and-white romance film from the Deep South.Gone with the Windtype stuff. I swing the tea towel over my shoulder for dramatic effect.
And god . . . I must look ridiculous.
His shoulders shake as he washes the last dish from the dessert we snuck in, secure in the knowledge that Maisey was sound asleep.
“How long you going to keep this new look?” he prompts.
“Well, I was thinking about heading down to the market, or maybe Maple Acres, you know. Might catch the attention of somebody special.”
He doubles over, hands gripping the edge of the porcelain sink.
I can’t help but laugh, too. When he comes up for air, his laughter petering out, tears stream down his face. “I’m sorry, it’s just been a really long time since I laughed that hard.”
My own laughter fades at that.
“In that case, you absolutely need a makeover, too.” I give him a mock sympathetic look, pretending to assess the angles of his face, his jawline, his...
Deep blues catch my gaze. The corner of his mouth still tipped up, he swallows as it drops, his lips parting.
