Page 21 of Chasing Honor

And before I could warn him I’d been to the store he opened the fridge.

“Holy shit,” he muttered.

“Daddy!”

“Sorry, Squirt.” Then turned his attention to me. “You’ve been busy today.”

“I hope you don’t mind. Since you gave me such a great move-in special, I thought I’d stock up on some groceries. The fridge was a little bare.”

“You didn’t have to do all this.”

“And you didn’t have to help me move my stuff and give me a free week’s rent, but you did.”

“Seriously, Honor.”

“Seriously, Ethan,” I mocked him, mimicking his stance.

His gaze dipped from my eyes then back up before he shook his head.

“Damn, I hate when my dad’s right,” he mumbled under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Thank you for this. But in the future, if you wouldn’t mind picking up some stuff for me and Carson, I’ll leave you money. But no special trips.”

“We’ll see.”

“Honor . . .”

“Ethan . . .”

“I’m serious.”

“And so am I. If you two need something, and I need to make an extra trip, I’ll make it. I work from home. I set my own hours. Some days I work eighteen hours, some days I work one. My schedule is flexible. I’m getting a room in a nice house for a steal. Not to mention it comes with a pretty little girl I get to cook with. If I want to pitch in and help where I can, I will, and you’re not gonna argue with me. Got it?”

Ethan stood stock-still, his back ram-rod straight, and I was worried I’d crossed a line with him.

“Doesn’t she you remind you of Gran when Pop tries to tell her what to do?” Carson broke out in a fit of giggles next to me.

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing.” His face went from unreadable to soft.

“Okay, smalls. But I’m leaving money. And that’s non-negotiable.”

“Smalls? I’m not small.”

“Sure you are. You’re barely taller than Carson. And compared to me you’re a small, sassy thing.”

“Back up, darlin’ let me put these in the oven. Make sure it’s set at 350 degrees, and they go on the middle rack.”

Carson checked the digital read out on the oven, and I ignored Ethan’s comment. I also avoided looking at him. The silly nickname had felt good, too good. There was nothing intimate about the word smalls, but, for some stupid reason, it felt like I’d just been inducted into this family of two. Ethan called Carson, Squirt, more than by her name; it was a term of endearment said with love and adoration for his daughter.

“Oven’s ready,” she confirmed.

I placed the tray on the rack and closed the door.

“Perfect. Set the timer for thirty minutes, check that the sauce is on simmer, and we’re done.”

“Check and check.” Carson said.