She gives a slight shrug, averting her gaze.
“You did great,” I tell her. “Own it.”
She perks up, a smile curving on her lips.
After adding a bit of oil to the pan, I turn back to Hayden. “Why don’t you go get comfortable? This should be done in about thirty minutes. I wanted itready when you got home, but my timing’s still a work in progress.”
“It’s okay,” he says quickly. “And…thanks.”
“Of course.”
He lingers for a moment longer, like he wants to say something else. Then he turns and heads out of the kitchen.
CHAPTER NINE
HAYDEN
The house feels different.
It’s cleaner, for one. The floor is clutter-free. Shoes are lined up instead of scattered like leaves. There’s no vague sense of chaos humming under the surface. No half-finished mess waiting for me to deal with the second I step inside.
None of the nannies Robert suggested ever cleaned like this. They’d tidy up after whatever disaster the kids created while they were on duty, but that was it. If there were shoes and socks scattered on the floor when they got here in the morning, they’d still be here when I arrived home. They never looked ahead. Never went beyond the bare minimum.
Sometimes they didn’t even do that.
And they definitely didn’t cook for me.
Not that I expected or asked them to. But it’ssurprising how good it feels not to walk through the door already bracing myself.
With the last few nannies, I barely had a chance to set my keys down before they were heading out, leaving me to jump straight into dad mode.
Not Rowan.
Even after a day full of keeping Jemmy entertained, she’s giving me time to myself.
I slip into my bedroom and take a quick shower, letting the hot water pour over me, rinsing the antiseptic smell of the office off my skin. I stand under the stream, eyes closed, enjoying the quiet.
But the longer I remain here, the guiltier I feel, so I finish quickly and dry off, pulling on jeans and a t-shirt before heading back downstairs.
Rowan’s voice carries through the living room before I even reach the kitchen.
“Now you can put some sauce on each piece of chicken.”
She’s obviously giving Presley instructions.
When I walked into the house earlier, I was shocked to see Presley helping Rowan. To see her willingly doing anything other than sitting quietly with her sketchpad is extremely rare. But Rowan seems to have coaxed her out of her shell.
I slow my steps and linger in the doorway of the kitchen so I can watch them without interrupting.
Presley stands by the island, spooning sauce over breaded chicken with careful precision. Rowan lingers beside her, relaxed, present, like she has nowhere else to be.
My daughter looks happier. Lighter. More at ease than she has in a long time.
Maybe because Rowan doesn’t talk to her like she’s fragile. Or broken. Or like there’s something wrong with her.
She talks to her like she’s a regular kid.
“Next up is mozzarella,” Rowan instructs. “You could use shredded, but I like the fresh stuff.” She leans in conspiratorially. “Mostly because I can eat it while I work.”
