Page 82 of The Right Kind of Wrong

Blake tapped her finger against her chin, then shot Monroe a smile. “I can’t believe that. Your aunt Monroe is great at so many things. But I’m always happy to help where braiding is concerned.”

Monroe wasn’t sure if she imagined the way Blake’s voice dipped a little lower when she mentioned the many things Monroe was allegedly great at, and it sent a spark of excitement through her that she had no business feeling.

It had to be her imagination, she decided, when Blake followed Maisie over to the sofa, seemingly unaffected by the statement.

“Scootch over?” Blake asked guilelessly, staring down at Monroe.

Or, at least, that’s how Monroe took it. It was not healthy for her to be second-guessing Blake’s motives at every turn.

She hopped up from where she’d been sitting, intent to put some distance between them. Tonight, she’d already be trapped in a truck bed with Blake for hours. At least Maisie would be there to run interference.

Her niece was both excellent at the task but also the one to, far more than was helpful, bring Blake into their sphere.

But she couldn’t begrudge Maisie as she watched her soften against Blake’s legs, settling in and telling Blake, “My grandma used to do this for me.”

There it was again. The dull, lingering ache that still struck whenever her mom came up. It intensified when Monroe thought about all the loss Maisie had already suffered in her young life.

Blake ran her fingers against Maisie’s scalp, scratching gently. “I can’t promise that I’ll do as good of a job, but I’ll try my very best.”

Maisie, seemingly accepting the answer, nodded. “I know ya will.”

And then there was nothing to do but watch as Blake’s nimble fingers quickly plaited Maisie’s hair. She managed to wrangle the curly strands, less thick than Monroe’s, into two distinct sections, divided down the middle of her head.

“Let me know if I’m pulling too much,” Blake said softly, starting to work through braiding the left side.

It gave Monroe a chance to breathe, once Maisie and Blake had turned their attention toward one another. Maisie was happily chatting about what she’d learned at dance last night, and from Monroe’s vantage point, safely across the room, she could watch the focused attention—tongue poking out of the side of her mouth from the effort—that Blake put toward making sure the braids were even.

Monroe found it surprisingly endearing, watching the two of them together while Maisie talked animatedly about anything that seemed to float into her brain—from being back at daycare for the second half of the week to the storm that she’d seen a couple of days ago and how they’d had to stay inside because the playground had flooded.

Yeah, Monroe knew that storm well.

The one that had ensconced them in the truck to ride it out, leading to a blisteringly satisfying kiss.

You know, that storm.

Like Blake could sense what she was thinking, she shot Monroe a look over her shoulder. From the way she lifted an eyebrow, eyes glinting, it was clear she was remembering it, too.

Monroe knew, in that moment, that she was in for a very long night.

Just like the fireworks, they’d taken two cars to the drive-in. Maisie had begged to ride in the truck, and Monroe had almost given in.

Almost.

She’d never forgive herself, though, if she could have done something to protect Maisie and hadn’t.

The good mood from expertly braided hair had quickly fallen to the wayside as Maisie had crossed her arms and stood firm in the living room, arguing her case.

Her adorable braids hadn’t helped Monroe’s resolve, and she’d stood firm to an unrelenting Maisie.

It had been Blake, the Maisie whisperer, who’d finally calmed her down.

“Maisie,” Blake had said evenly, “you know how we stretch for a lot of dance class? To make sure that our muscles are good and loose?” And then Blake had flailed her arms around, which garnered a tepid smile from Maisie, who clearly still wasn’t sold.

Maisie put her hand on her hip and jutted it outward defiantly. “Yeah, I ‘member.”

“I knew you did,” Blake responded, leveling a bright smile in Maisie’s direction. Monroe had been able to tell—easily—that this wasn’t Blake’s first rodeo dealing with frustrated kids. “We do that because we don’t want to get hurt. Because if we got hurt, we may not be able to dance for a really long time while we healed.” Blake tilted her head to the side. “Does that make sense?”

Maisie nodded, and she chewed on the inside of her cheek, eyes still narrowed. “Yeah.”