Claire is temporarily cohabitating my space.
That’s it.
At least with Jack and Natalie sticking around, I have built-in babysitters.
The summer childcare programs at Daisy Lake are exceptional. We offer caregivers an opportunity to take advantage of activities their children may be too young to partake in, like horseback riding or sailing. Or relaxing at the adults-only spa. Or experiencing a meal without a toddler spilling spaghetti on their laps.
Ask me how I know.
But I prefer not to take advantage of the programs all day, every day, even though I sign the paychecks.
“It’s not a choice, Dolly. You have to wash your hair.”
“But I don’t wanna.” She slumps onto the bathroom floor, her little arms and legs sliding across the tiles like she’s making a snow angel. Though it’s more like a dust bunny angel. Damn, I swear I just cleaned in here.
I gently grasp her arms and set her upright. “You’ve been swimming in the pool today. If you don’t wash it, the chlorine will make it turn green.”
“So?” She stares up at me, head dropped back. “Your eyes are green.”
She’s as endearing as she is frustrating. “But hair is different.”
“Why?”
“Because.” I huff. For the love of all things feminist, why arefive-year-olds so inquisitive? I want to raise my daughter to be curious and ask questions, just… not during bathtime.
“Hello?” a feminine voice calls from the front of the house.
Bea darts past me out of my room and down the hall in her bathing suit. “Claire!”
I chase after her. “It’s Doctor—” I stop short when I discover my new camp doc looking like she’s just come from a wet T-shirt contest in Daytona Beach. Her white shirt is plastered to her skin, though her hair is perfectly dry, and when I glance outside, it doesn’t look like it’s rained.
“What happened?” I ask, while working hard to pull my gaze away from her perfectly peaked nipples. Fuck, they’re hard.
She crosses her arms over her chest and clears her throat. “Just a little accident in the cafeteria at dinner. A kid spilled lemonade on me. But it’s all good.”
I snag Bea’s mostly dry pool towel from where it’s hanging by the door and offer it to her.
“Thanks. I’m gonna shower,” she says as she steps toward the hallway.
Unconsciously, I take a step toward her. “Are you going to wash your hair?”
“Yes?” She frowns at me, the expression screamingwhy the hell would you ask me that, weirdo?
Turning to my daughter, I say, “See, Dolly. Dr. Connelly is going to wash her hair. Don’t you want to wash yours too?”
“No.” She stomps her foot.
I throw my hands up with a groan. I can’t have my daughter’s hair turning green from the chlorine.
Claire’s eyes dance between mine and Bea’s, assessing.Then she claps once, stealing my daughter’s attention, and grins. “Oh my gosh. Do you want to play beauty salon?”
Bea cocks her head to the side. “What’s that?”
“Have you ever gone somewhere to get your hair cut?”
She nods.
“That’s a beauty salon. I could pretend to be the hairdresser, and you have an appointment to get your hair done. Wanna play?” She holds her hand to her mouth and whispers, “We won’t really cut your hair,” then winks at me.
