Daisy tries on a dozen more—some too stiff, some too tall, one pair so squeaky she looked personally offended—until she finally finds her pair: soft brown leather with pale pink stitching.
She stares at them for a long moment, then grins. “These feel like they’ll run fast.”
“Fast is important,” Aria agrees with the solemnity of a surgeon.
Daisy lifts her chin, proud. “I pick these.”
I clap my hands once. “Perfect. One pair of winner boots and one pair of fast boots. I think we’re ready for the podium.”
Both girls squeal, throwing themselves into a hug so enthusiastic they almost knock over a rack of socks.
They’re glowing, truly glowing, and seeing them that happy makes me happy as well. Aria in her chestnut vines. Daisy in her pink-stitched browns. Two little competitors who want to look good while they fly.
“Okay,” I say, grabbing the shoeboxes, “off to find clothes to match these masterpieces. Because if you’re racing in style, we’re committing fully.”
They cheer, and just like that, we head out of the store—two excited racers, one overloaded shopping cart, and me, their designated stylist/coach/auntie/mom-figure who loves them more than they’ll ever know.
Next, we head into the mall and directly to our store of choice for competition shirts and the kind of denim that lasts through six months of horse slobber.
I hold up a deep teal competition top. “Aria, this color will look beautiful on you.”
“Can I try it?” she asks.
“Go for it.”
She rushes into the dressing room, and Daisy trails behind, shutting the door like they’re entering a top-secret fashion bunker.
I lean against a display table while waiting, scrolling through my phone, smiling at a text from Ava asking for pictures, and another from Cole that just says: You okay, sweetheart?
I bite my lip, smiling like an idiot: Yes. Still shopping with the girls. Don’t worry, Papa Bear, I’ll bring your daughter home in one piece. Mostly.
Him: She better be in ALL the pieces.
Me: I’ll try.
He sends back a laughing emoji and a little yellow heart, and I swear my chest turns into warm syrup.
I’m still grinning at my phone when the dressing room door bursts open and Aria twirls in the teal top, the sleeves fitted, neckline modest, and shimmer catching the overhead lights like it was made just for her.
“Ella,” she calls out, breathless. “Look.”
My throat tightens. “Oh, honey… You look beautiful.”
She beams so bright it hurts.
Daisy jumps around her like an excited shadow. “She looks like a champion!”
She does. God, she really does.
We’re still laughing when that voice cuts through the store, slicing the air open with a single, sharp note.
“Well, isn’t this precious?”
The girls freeze, and my stomach drops. Because I’d know that voice anywhere.
Calista.
She stands near the entrance of the store, arms crossed, hip cocked, sunglasses perched on her head. What is with her and those damn sunglasses? She’s dressed like she’s walking a runway instead of lurking in the children’s section—white blouse, tight skirt, heels too impractical for this town. She looks at me with the kind of smirk that starts fights.
