Sam leaned in. “I’m almost impressed.”
They continued into the lobby, the rich scent of cedar and stone rising around them. The vaulted ceilings stretched above them like the ribs of a cathedral. Heavy timber beams cast long shadows over the polished floor, and Derek’s brooding, far too serious mood seemed to cling to their solid weight.
But Easton wasn’t made of oak and iron.
He caught the soft swirl of dust motes dancing in the golden haze of afternoon sun, filtering through the massive windows that framed the mountains beyond. His steps lightened. The mischievous glint in Sam’s eyes, the childish chaos of the stickers, and the infectious giggle of the Littles responsible reminded Easton of something vital.
Messy, inconvenient, utterly necessary joy.
A few steps further, Easton spotted another sticker. This one was stuck to a reading lamp by the oversized leather armchairs near the double-sided fireplace.
MOOD: FERAL UNICORN.
Derek muttered under his breath. “If they touched the fireplace…”
“They didn’t,” Sam said, gesturing across the stone hearth, “But they did stick one to the side of the wooden reading table.”
WARNING: MAY SPONTANEOUSLY GIGGLE.
Easton veered right as they reached the check-in desk. There, in plain view on the side of the snack basket, a new label sparkled.
WILL LIE FOR ICE CREAM.
Erika wasn’t behind the desk, but the coffee was still steaming. Easton took a step toward the store and paused.
The spinning rack of stuffies? Decorated.
LICENSED TO BRAT.
On the glass display cabinet holding vibrators and plugs, they found another.
100% ORGANIC SASS.
Sam chuckled. “They’re escalating.”
Past the restaurants, the air smelled of cinnamon and roasted coffee. Easton glanced into the café window, catching his reflection and something else. A sticker on the inside of the glass. They went inside.
NAP-READY AND UNASHAMED.
Derek groaned.
They turned left and entered the Littles’ Wing, the wood floors giving way to marble tile. The temperature shifted.
On the wall just outside the trophy case, another decal had been carefully aligned beneath the 2024 Halloween award.
BRAT LEVEL. EXPERT.
Sam stopped beside the case and tapped the sticker with one knuckle. “I think they got carried away a little bit.”
Derek pointed at a square label on the timeout room doorframe.
SPANK BANK HEADQUARTERS.
“I think that one should have been on the Dungeon,” Easton stated. His lips kept twitching.
Derek exhaled. “I swear, if I find one on my implements, I’ll spank them until the stickers wear off.”
Easton bit down on another laugh and gestured toward the hallway. “Come on. Let’s flush them out before they start labeling the pets.”
