Page 13 of Pucking Daddy

"You must be Miss Winslow." Not a question. "I'm Mrs. Henriksen, the housekeeper. Come in."

The apartment stretches out behind her like something from a magazine spread.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city, late afternoon light spilling across hardwood floors and leather furniture.

But what catches my attention are the touches of chaos—a pink backpack tossed on an armchair, drawings taped to the refrigerator visible through a kitchen archway, a pair of tiny sneakers abandoned by the couch.

This is a home. Underneath all the polish, somebody actually lives here.

"Your room is down the hall," Mrs. Henriksen says, already walking. "Mr. Halberg is at practice. He'll return for dinner. Until then, I'll show you around and introduce you to Lily."

Lily. The little girl I’d been hired to care for. Six years old, according to the agency file. I’m not sure if her mother is in the picture—there wasn’t anything about that in the file.

A burst of giggling erupts from somewhere deeper in the apartment, and something warm unclenches in my chest.

Kids are my territory. Kids I understand.

Mrs. Henriksen leads me through a living area, past a dining room with a table that can seat twelve, into a kitchen that gleams with professional-grade appliances.

And there, standing on a step stool at the marble island, is a small tornado of blonde curls and flour-dusted cheeks.

"Lily," Mrs. Henriksen says, and the tornado spins around.

Blue eyes. A gap-toothed grin. Chocolate chips smeared across her chin.

"Are you my new nanny?" she demands.

I crouch to her level, ignoring the flour now drifting onto my jeans. "I'm Zara. And you must be the famous Lily I've heard so much about."

"I'm not famous." She considers this. "Yet."

I bite back a laugh. "Fair point. What are we making?"

"Cookies." She holds up a wooden spoon like a scepter. "Mrs. H said I could if I didn't make a mess, but..." She glances at the flour explosion surrounding her. "Oops?"

Mrs. Henriksen sighs, but I catch the softness in it. "I'll leave you two to finish. Zara, I'll show you your room after."

The moment she leaves, Lily grabs my hand and tugs me toward the step stool. "You have to help. The chocolate chips keep falling on the floor and I'm not supposed to eat floor chips but they taste the same."

"Solid logic." I roll up my sleeves. "Okay, chef. What's the plan?"

For the next hour, Lily and I cover ourselves in dough, negotiate the appropriate ratio of chocolate chips to cookie (her answer: more), and construct what she insists are "art cookies" rather than the misshapen blobs they actually are.

She tells me about her favorite cartoon (something with singing dragons), her best friend at school (Maria, who has a hamster named Sir Fluffington), and the very important fact that her dad is the boss of a whole hockey team.

"He yells at them but in a nice way," she explains, licking batter from her fingers. "And they listen because he's really tall."

"Is that how it works?"

"Yep. Tall people are in charge. That's the rules."

I file this information away under Lily Logic and slide the first tray into the oven.

By the time Mrs. Henriksen returns, the kitchen looks like a bakery has exploded, but we have three dozen cookies cooling on racks and Lily is perched on the counter eating a broken one.

"You've made yourself at home," Mrs. Henriksen observes. Her tone is neutral, but her eyes linger on Lily's chocolate-smeared smile.

"We worked very hard," Lily announces. "Zara's good at cookies. Better even than Daddy."