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The dancing pickle image in my mind won’t quit and I giggle so hard I snort, a little drop of snot escaping. “Fine. I’m fine.” I can’t call him Dill to his face. I can’t. He’ll be so offended, the forehead furrow will be so deep I’ll have to worry about his brain health. But I can’t stop giggling at the idea.
“Maggie, what is so funny?” Olive appears beside me, holding a plate overflowing with cookies. I take the plate from her before she climbs over my legs and snuggles into my side.
“I was just trying to decide on a nickname for your dad.” He can’t kill me if I’m snuggling with his kid, right? “What do you think of Nurse Dill?”
There’s a clunk in the kitchen, like from a mug being set down on the counter too hard. I’m going to die. He’s going to kill me, snuggling or not.
“Dill?”
“Like a dill pickle.” I can almost hear his teeth grinding from here.
“Because he calls me Pickle? But he’s not a nurse anymore. Just a daddy.”
I will not call him Daddy Dill. I won’t.
“He works here, though.” I point out—anything to distract me from the wholly inappropriate jokes that I desperately want to make.
“He lives here. Living on the vineyard means you have to take care of it.”
Kel sets a pair of mugs down in front of us, whipped cream towering above the rims. “Hot chocolate, for the ladies.” He glares at me on the last word and I grin back. “No one is calling me Dill anything. Dill is a flavor for food, not a nickname.”
“You’re no fun.” My teasing bounces off his retreating back.
“Yeah, Daddy. No fun.” Olive adds her stuck-out tongue to her volley, and I cringe. Okay, maybe I took it too far in front of his kid.
“I’m sure your dad is lots of fun. Just maybe not when he’s babysitting an unruly bunch of hooligans.”
“Are we hooligans?”
“Yes, you are.” Kel comes back, setting down a third mug and a bowl of chips.
“Well, this hooligan is ready to watch a movie. Are you?” I direct my question at Olive, who snuggles deeper into my side in answer.
“Yup. Hurry up, Daddy.”
“Yeah, hurry up, Daddy,” I echo, giggling with Olive at Kel’s muttered threat to leave us to the movie and go to bed. I’ve known these two for less than a day and already the banter between us feels easy.
Kel comes back, dropping an ice pack not-so-gently on my foot. The reminder of why I’m here in the first place isn’t lost on me, and some of my silliness drains away. I’m only here because he doesn’t think I can take care of myself.
Olive alternates between snuggling with me, snuggling with Kel and running laps around the couch every time her favorite character, GoGo Tomago, is on screen. I get a quelling look from Kel when I slide my whipped cream on his hot chocolate, but I figure it’s better than the death glare I would have gotten for giving it to Olive instead.
I was expecting her to tire out and be asleep by the end of the movie, but she’s still racing laps as the end credits roll.
“Bed time, Pickle.” Kel stops her with an arm around her middle as she passes him. “Grab the plates and bowl, please.” He swings her over his lap with one arm before he stands. She grabs the plate of cookie crumbs and the bowl of chips while he sweeps all three mugs up in one hand.
Another pang of wistfulness washes over me as he guides Olive through helping him clean up. If only Frank hadn’t been such an asshole in the end—this is exactly what I’d always pictured for myself. Instead, I’m almost thirty-one with so little hope of having this for myself that I’m fantasizing about a man and his kid that I’ve known for less than twelve hours.
Kel
I haven’t slept this late in years. Seven to be exact. June was never a morning person, so when Olive was a newborn, I would always take the early morning diaper changes and feedings—when I wasn’t on shift. Early mornings are my favorite time of day.
But last night I laid awake staring at the ceiling, thinking about the woman on my couch until nearly four in the morning. My ears were on high alert—desperate for any noise. Anything that would give me an excuse to go check on her, offer her my bed. Me being in the bed with her was entirely optional.
I haven’t exactly sworn off dating—I just haven’t been interested in looking for anything. But damn if Maggie didn’t crash into my life yesterday morning like a fucking tornado, and by the time I wished her good night, I couldn’t remember what my life had been like without her and Olive chatting away to each other.
“Shhh, shhh.” Olive’s not-so-whispered giggle can be heard over the low volume of cartoons they’ve been watching for the last thirty minutes. I haven’t had the heart to go disturb them.
I’ve also been trying to figure out why it’s not bothering me to see Olive take such a shine to Maggie. When June first introduced Olive to Shelby, I was sick with jealousy for months. Every time Olive came home telling me about all the amazing things she’d done with Shelby was like a knife in my gut. Hell, it’s the whole reason I started baking in the first place—to compete with Shelby for my daughter’s affection.
