“Candy Land, huh?” Daniel asked, settling beside Teddy. “A classic choice.”
“Holly said it’s her favorite too,” Maisie informed him importantly.
Daniel’s eyes found Holly’s again, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Good taste.”
That smile did something to her insides, something warm and unsettling that made her want to look away and never stoplooking all at once. She took a sip of tea she didn’t really taste, using the mug like a shield.
“Dad, you’re not blue today,” Teddy announced as he set up the game. “Holly gets to be blue. Maisie said so.”
“Is that right?” Daniel raised an eyebrow, his tone light. “Well, I suppose I can be red for one day.”
“Such sacrifice,” Holly teased, the words slipping out before she could consider them. The playful note in her voice startled her; it had been a long time since she’d heard herself sound like that.
Daniel’s laugh was low and rich. “You have no idea. This is a serious breach of Candy Land protocol.”
The game began, and Holly found herself relaxing into the simple rhythm of play. Teddy celebrated each small victory with uninhibited joy, while Maisie approached each turn with strategic concentration. Daniel watched them all with quiet amusement, occasionally catching Holly’s eye over the children’s heads, sharing silent moments of adult understanding amid the childish competition. Every time their gazes met, a little spark jumped between them, subtle but impossible to ignore.
It felt so natural, so right, that Holly had to remind herself this wasn’t her life. These weren’t her children. This wasn’t her home. The thought sent a pang of longing through her chest so sharp she nearly gasped. She shifted slightly, as if she could physically move away from the ache, but it stayed lodged right under her breastbone.
As the afternoon wore on, they moved from Candy Land to coloring books spread across the living room floor. Holly lay on her stomach beside Maisie, carefully coloring a unicorn’s mane in rainbow stripes while Teddy created what he insisted was a “fire-breathing dinosaur” with enthusiastic scribbles.
Daniel moved around them, straightening cushions, folding discarded blankets, bringing fresh drinks. Each time he entered the room, Holly was intimately aware of his movements, as if her body was somehow attuning itself to his presence.
When he leaned over her shoulder to see her coloring, his breath warm against her hair, she had to concentrate on keeping her hand steady.
“Nice technique,” he murmured, close enough that only she could hear. “Staying inside the lines and everything.”
“High praise,” she whispered back, looking up at him. Their faces were inches apart, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just his eyes, focused entirely on her.
Then Teddy called for his attention, breaking the moment, and Daniel straightened with a smile that lingered even as he crossed the room to his son.
Holly watched as he kneeled beside Teddy, examining the colorful creation with exaggerated interest, asking questions that made the boy beam with pride. The tenderness with which he treated his children, the infinite patience in his voice even after answering the same question for the third time—it stirred something deep inside her, a longing so profound it almost hurt.
This was what she’d always wanted. Not the perfect wedding or the society-approved marriage her mother had pushed for. Not Andrew, with his calculated charm and country club connections. Just this—a home filled with warmth and genuine love, where blanket forts were celebrated and coloring outside the lines was perfectly acceptable.
The realization hit her with such force that she had to look away, focusing intently on her unicorn while blinking back unexpected tears.
“Holly, can you help me reach the purple?” Maisie asked, pointing to a crayon that had rolled just out of reach.
Holly passed it to her, grateful for the distraction. “Here you go, sweetie.”
The endearment slipped out naturally, and Maisie accepted it without question, as if Holly had always been the kind of person who called her “sweetie.”
“Thank you,” Maisie said, then frowned at her picture. “I can’t get the wings right.”
“Want me to show you a trick?” Holly offered and spent the next few minutes demonstrating how to create the illusion of feathers with gentle, overlapping strokes.
“You’re good at this,” Maisie said, her voice full of admiration.
“I used to draw a lot when I was younger,” Holly admitted. “I wanted to be an artist.”
“Why didn’t you?” Maisie asked with a child’s directness.
The question caught Holly off guard. Why hadn’t she? The memory surfaced of her mother’s disapproving frown when she’d mentioned art school, the gentle but firm redirections toward more “practical” pursuits.
“Sometimes we make choices that take us in different directions,” she said finally, aware of how inadequate the explanation was.
“But you could still be an artist now,” Maisie insisted. “Dad says it’s never too late to be what you want to be.”
