Page 28 of Peaches & Pistols

I considered giving them a different last name as an added layer of protection from being located, but decided Mia doesn’t deserve to live like she’s in hiding. Let him come. He’ll meet his maker.

While I waited for the documents to be delivered, I tracked down the piece of shit husband and did a deep dive unearthing everything in existence about Carter Spencer Whitaker.

Forty-two-year-old male, Kansas City native. Insurance broker for a nationwide insurance chain. Six-foot-four, swimmer, two-hundred pounds. I can see so much of him in Everly, but not nearly as much as the radiant beauty she got from Mia.

I don’t have current plans to use any of the information I have on him. But it’s handy having his social security number, date of birth, driver’s license number, bank account information, phone number, address, and contacts for just about anyone he’s ever met, should I ever need to handle things my way.

“Daddy!” Harper bounds into the store, loaded down by her backpack, hair tangled and matted from sweat. The days are still uncomfortably hot but dipping lower overnight as we move into autumn.

“Hey, you. How was school?” I wrap her in a bear hug as she tells me about her day. Mia and Everly are standing off to the side, patiently giving us our family moment.

It’s been the same every day after school for the past two weeks. Mia’s settled in as Harper’s nanny flawlessly. My household’s never run so smoothly. I’ve yet to worry about anything school or meal related.

I’ve even been able to resume my early morning duties at Lucky Spurs Ranch, now that I can leave knowing there’s another adult here to care of Harper. Maybe seven’s my lucky number after all.

She makes the breakfasts, packs the lunches, preps the afternoon snacks, and cooks damn-near gourmet dinners, always with dessert. I’m going to get soft around the middle if I keep eating seconds of everything she makes.

“Need anything from me?” I ask over Harper’s head. Mia shakes her head, eyes darting to the back of the store where the door to the stairwell awaits.

“Okay girls, let’s go have a snack and check for any homework.” Her melodic voice fades the further into the store they walk. I close my eyes and wait for the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and the apartment door locking.

Checking the time, I have just under three hours to wrap up some side business before I close the store at 6:00 p.m. One of the great and frustrating things about living in such a small town is unless it’s The Flying Pig or Bean & Brew, Main Street mostly opens around eight and closes down by six.

I’m often in early and stay late to conduct my dealings, but my store’s only open eight to six, to maintain appearances.

I need to get my head on straight so I can get my to-do list done before end of day. My mind doesn’t need to be upstairs with the enigmatic blonde bombshell.

My phone vibrates in my pocket as I lock the till and close the store down for the night.

Olivia: Mom wants to know if you’re bringing Harper to my birthday dinner this week.

Me: You know the answer.

Olivia: I know, but I always hope for a different one.

Me: Don’t start this shit with me again.

Olivia. Okay, okay. Calm down, you sourpuss.

Olivia: Are you bringing your nanny and her little one to my birthday party at the ranch?

I hadn’t thought to invite her to be honest. But my sister and the Andersen women have been relentlessly trying to bring Mia into their fold and convert her to their brand of crazy.

Might be good for her to spend time with my friends and family. They’ll be crossing paths for the foreseeable future.

Me: I’ll extend the invitation, but I won’t force her to come.

Olivia: That’s what he said.

Me: What?

Olivia: It’s a joke.

Me: What’s a joke?

Olivia: Oh my god, you’re impossible. You said you won’t force her to COME…that’s what HE said.

Olivia: You know, like a “that’s what she said” dirty joke.