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Perfect.

“I don’t want you to go outside. I just want you to stand in the doorway and collect this much rainwater,” I instructed firmly, pointing to the quarter cup line in the glass. “Are you sure⁠—”

“I can do it.” She took the measuring cup and headed for the hall.

As soon as she was out of sight, I spun for the pantry cabinet and hauled out the box of Ferrero Rocher, my fingers flying to unwrap the hazelnut candies and then tuck them into the batter. My shoulder heaved when I managed to finish pouring the batter into the baking dish just as the front door shut and Pais yelled, “I got it!”

She sprinted back, and I quickly opened the oven and pushed the cake inside. How Gigi managed to hide the secret ingredient from all three of us…that was the real magic.

“Perfect timing,” I said and took the cup from her, examining the contents. “Awesome.” I smiled. “Now, let’s make the icing.”

While the cake baked, we whipped up the Nutella buttercream. Was there really anything that couldn’t be made better with Nutella?

“Harper…” Paisley hesitated, chewing on the thought along with her bottom lip.

“What’s up?” I asked, keeping my eyes focused on the bowl of icing. I’d learned she was less afraid to tell or ask me things when I wasn’t looking right at her.

“Were you afraid of thunderstorms?”

I tipped my head. I could tell her yes, but it would’ve been a lie.

“No, I don’t remember ever being afraid of them. Especially not when they came with thunder cakes. But your Aunt Lou was afraid of them,” I told her, remembering all the things Frankie and I did to distract her.

“She was?”

“Yeah.” I nodded and set the finished icing to the side. “We would make a blanket fort and sleep underneath it so Lou wouldn’t see the lightning.”

“A blanket fort?”

I didn’t have to ask if she’d ever made one, I could see on her face that she hadn’t.

“After we eat our thunder cake, if your dad still isn’t home, we could make one,” I told her and winked. “But only after we hide any cake leftovers so he doesn’t see it.”

“Did Daddy take pictures with the bees today?” She sat on her hands and rocked forward.

“He did.” I nodded, trying to shake away the hold those images of Blaze had on me. How natural he looked in nature. How crazy it was to see photos of him holding my honey jars. How insanely—unfairly erotic it was to watch him slide his fingers through the raw honey.

“Did he get stung, too?”

“Oh no.” I rubbed my thumb over my tiny wound.

“Do you think I’ll get stung?”

I chewed on the inside of my cheek, wondering if I was just too honest of a person to reliably be left alone with kids.

“You could,” I told her truthfully because it was a hazard of working with them—around them. “But most times, honeybees are nice and don’t sting. The sisters only get upset when you scare them or when they think you’re dangerous to their home.”

“Kind of like Daddy.”

My head tipped back. “Oh?” I wasn’t sure how else to respond.

“He only gets mad when the camera monsters scare him and get close to our home. Then he looks like he wants to sting them,” she said matter-of-factly.

I fought a chuckle just as much as I fought the tightness that clamped around my throat.

“Do boy bees have bigger stingers?”

Mind out of the gutter, Harper.