The lights were low, Clarke was probably off having midday sex with Soren, and for the first time in a long time, nobody needed me for some random caption or cheesy hashtag.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was close.
That was, until I felt the cushion next to me shift under the weight of another body.
I tensed, half-expecting Clarke with another ginger chew or, worse, a player needing content approval. But then I heard the unmistakable sound of Velcro sneakers and the soft exhale of someone much too young to be an adult.
I lifted the shirt just enough to peek.
Brooks’s daughter, Carolina, sat cross-legged at the far end of the couch. Her sneakers were scuffed, her pigtails slightly uneven, and she was holding a spiral notebook in one hand and a purple marker in the other.
She smiled, perfectly at ease. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I said, propping myself up on one elbow. “What are you doing?”
“Working on names for my sourdough starter,” she replied, flipping to a fresh page in her notebook like that answered everything. “Ellie left me alone for too long, and I got bored, so I decided to explore.”
“Ellie?”
“My nanny.”
I sat up fully now, stomach flipping for a whole new reason.
“Youditchedyour nanny?”
She grinned, pleased with herself.
I swung my legs off the couch and stood, steadying myself. The nausea hadn’t disappeared, but Carolina had distracted me enough that I didn’t feel like actively dying anymore.
She closed her notebook and looked up at me. “Are you going to walk me back?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But I don’t want to go.” Her attention flicked to something behind me. “You and Clarke have better snacks.”
She wasn’t wrong. Wedidhave excellent taste in snacks.
Probably because neither of us ate vegan, like Brooks. Apparently, we both had the palate of a six-year-old girl, and our snack drawer was proof enough—fruit snacks, peanut butter crackers, and enough candy to sedate a polar bear.
I held my hand out to her. “Tell you what. I’ll let you take two snacks back with you if you promise not to wander off like this again. Deal?”
“Four snacks.”
“Two.”
“Three snacks.”
“Two.” Her brows pinched together. “AndI help you come up with a name for your sourdough.”
She smiled and placed her hand in mine. “Deal.”
By the time we reached the lower level, Carolina had already polished off a bag of crackers and shot down at least a dozen name suggestions.
“What about Doughly Parton?”
“No.”
“Little Bread Riding Hood?”
