“No…”
“We can turn them into swords, though,” Sante said, nodding. “Come on, Ellis. I will show you how.”
He took her hand and tugged her away, and she went, looking confused and worried, as Kingston followed.
“He won’t turn her dolls into swords,” Dom said. “I mean, probably.”
“He’ll take their heads off, though,” Levin said.
Rosalie winced.
“It’ll be OK,” I said. “Ellis will handle them. Give her some credit.”
“They need someone to put them in their place,” Dom said. “She might be the one to do it.” We all stared out at them as Sante and King took their dolls and smacked at one another with them like they were swords.
Ellis immediately stepped between them, took the dolls back, and pointed to the couch, declaring it was time-out time.
They went with a groan and sat on the couch, watching her as she lectured them.
“Wow. We should hire her to come in and watch them,” Levin muttered.
“That’s… impressive,” Dom said. “Nice job on that one, Rosalie.”
Rosalie chuckled, and I kissed her temple.
We fell into easy conversation with the kings. I caught Ellis teaching the twins her ballerina moves after she let them up from their time out. The boys tried to do what she was doing. King was infinitely better at it than Sante was. It was cute to watch her instruct them.
“We were just finishing making dinner. You guys are welcome to stay,” I said.
“Uh, yeah. We could eat,” Dom said, going to the table.
We called the kids over, and everyone settled in.
“Is that… soup?” Levin asked, staring at my mac and cheese.
“It’s an Evan specialty,” Anson said, grinning at me. “We love it.”
“I’m a terrible cook,” I admitted. “But Ellis gobbles it up.”
“Can’t be that bad.” Dom took some onto his plate. “Probably beats anything Fallon tries to make. I swear he’s going to burn the house down one of these days.”
“Dad, Ellis is a ballerina!” King called out. “I want to be a ballerina too!”
Ellis grinned at that news, and Sante wrinkled his nose.
“Uh, we’ll have to talk to Mom and Dad about that,” Dom said, frowning.
“It’s a girl thing,” Sante said to King. “You’re not a girl.”
“Boys dance,” King shot back. “Dad dances with Mom all the time.”
“That’s different,” Sante argued. “You have broccoli in your teeth.”
“Shut up! You have broccoli in your hair!”
“No, I don’t?—”
King threw a broccoli floret at Sante, nailing him in the forehead.
