Page 29 of Peaches & Pistols

Olivia: Get it?

Olivia: Don’t you ignore me, Greyson. I know where you live.

Olivia: Dick. See you at the ranch party.

Olivia’s been a pain in my ass since the day she was born. What twelve-year-old wants to be changing dirty diapers and waking up at all hours of the night to a banshee screaming?

Of course I love her and have spent my life doing everything I can to protect her. Doesn’t mean she’s not my annoying little sister.

I never register how tired I am until I have to climb the endless stairs to the apartment. Every step hurts my knees because I’m closer to forty than I am to thirty and getting older fucking sucks.

The mouthwatering aroma of garlic and basil consume me as soon as I enter the apartment. But it isn’t the food that stops me in my tracks.

Mia stands in the kitchen, stirring something over the stove. Two dining chairs are pulled up, one on each side of her, each holding a little girl.

She holds the spoon of marinara out to Harper who takes a taste, lighting up with delight. She dips the spoon again and offers a taste to Everly, who ends up looking like a circus clown with red ringing her mouth.

The three of them talk and laugh, looking so natural together. The hot iron poker in my chest must be preemptive heartburn from the garlic. It’s definitely not the sight of my daughter receiving the motherly attention she’s been bereft of her entire life.

I can’t deny the part of me that still worries Mia will run. Harper’s taken such a shine to her and Everly; she’d be devastated if they disappear. She’s growing too attached to her nanny.

Hell, I’m growing too attached to her nanny.

“Smells great, ladies.” I say, walking to greet them in the kitchen.

“We made chicken tarma-john. Tarma-john, right Mama?” Everly says, adorable as all get out.

Mia’s warm chuckle wraps around me like a hug. “Parmesan. Par-meh-zahn,” she enunciates for Everly. Both girls repeat after her, pleased as punch for the attention and vocabulary lesson.

“One of my favorite dishes.” I wink at Mia involuntarily, bringing a flush to her cheeks.

What the fuck was that? I don’t wink at people, especially not my kid’s nanny.

Dinner passes in a flurry of happy chewing, stories about the day, and a comfortability I could get used to.

When Mia dishes up dessert, I swear drool drips from the corner of my greedy mouth.

“Peach cobbler?” I ask stupidly, because it’s clearly peach cobbler, but my brain doesn’t work right when I’m this close to her.

“I hope that’s alright…”

Her confidence has grown over the past few weeks, but I still catch traces of uneasiness or fear when I move too quickly, if I’m in a bad mood, and especially at meal times. I praise her cooking relentlessly.

Hopefully one day it’ll sink in that I’m not going to combust over a slightly burnt piece of garlic bread, like her husband would’ve.

“You must’ve talked to Olivia or Cecelia for insider information, because chicken parmesan and peach cobbler are literally my death row meal.”

“Your what?” Everly asks.

Shit, not sure explaining death row to a six-year-old is appropriate dinner conversation.

“He means if he got to only eat one meal, it’d be this.”

Mia swoops in to save the day, the slightest smirk playing on her full lips.

The girls move on quickly, only picking at the crumble topping, not eating any of the “mushy fruit” as Everly says. They ask to be excused from the table when Mia and I still have half our dessert left on our plates.

“Is this really your favorite dessert?” Mia asks, not meeting my eyes.