My eyes flutter open at the sound of heavy footsteps and whispers. I stifle a groan.
What time is it?
The light filtering in through the curtains suggests it’s morning.It can’t be morningalready.
My head hurts.
My body hurts.
“But I think my slipper is in there,” a small voice whisper-whines outside the door.
“I’ll get you socks. Don’t go in there. Willow is not a pretty morning person. You’ve been warned.”
Oh. The kid. Right.
I twist out of my cocoon. It’s been a while since I’ve been a guest anywhere. Is it polite to sleep in? I don’t know, but it can’t be polite to wake your guest either.
I huff and twist back under the covers.
“Put these on, then come downstairs.Quietly,” Rose hisses.
Poor kid.
I’m a slipper girl myself. Can’t imagine having restricted access to continuous warm hugs for my feet.
I sit up and look around for it. Sure enough, a single pink fluffy slipper is tucked under the private bathroom door. I must have been too exhausted to notice it last night. Slipping out of bed, I reluctantly tiptoe over and pick it up. Moving to the bedroom door, I stand behind it, twist and pull on the knob slightly, and drop the slipper just outside. It lands with a soft thump.
I hear a small gasp on the other side and quick quiet steps draw closer. “Thank you,” she whispers, a smile in her voice.
I close the door without a word and smile back.
Thirty minutes later, I slip on my own blue-green hand-knitted booties and follow the coffee aroma downstairs.
“Morning, sunshine,” Rose calls from the kitchen. “Coffee?”
The little girl’s silky wild curls are the first thing I see when I step in. They frame her bright blue eyes and tiny knowing smirk, like we share a secret of some kind.
I give her one that matches. “Morning. You must be Ellie.”
She nods from her seat at the table and lifts up her foot to show me the slippers. I lift mine right back.
“Why were you in Dallas’s room?”
My brows shoot up. “Dallas?”
Rose gives me a pointed look as she sets my coffee down.
“Oh right, well. Your—Dallas, was kind enough to let me use it while I’m here.”
She frowns. “But I heard him tell Uncle Wilder that he doesn’t plan on bringing women to his room.”
I laugh. “How old are you?”
“Seven. But I’m a young seven.”
“Is there anoldseven?”
“I turned seven last month.”
