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Apparently, that’s enough time for my daughter to adore her and for me to start picturing things I have no business picturing.

“Daddy, come on!” Aspen calls, dragging Blair toward a game booth lined with stuffed animals.

The aim is simple—knock down six metal cans with three balls.

Aspen misses with the first two and clips the edge of one with the third.

“They cheated,” she declares, glaring at the cans.

“Definitely rigged,” Blair agrees solemnly.

I hand the guy another ticket. “Move over.”

Blair folds her arms. “Going to show us how it’s done, Mr. Ashford?”

“Planning on it.”

I knock down all six cans with the first ball.

Aspen cheers like I’ve won the fucking Super Bowl.

“Pick something, Pen.”

She studies the prizes before choosing a stuffed fox with an oversized tail. The second it’s in her arms, she points toward a row of smaller toys.

“Now Miss Morgan needs one.”

“Oh, I’m okay,” Blair says, laughing. “Your dad has already proven himself.”

I pass over another ticket.

Blair raises a brow. “Seriously?”

“Can’t have you leaving empty-handed.”

This time, it takes two throws. Blair looks over the prizes before pointing to a small brown bear wearing a ridiculous orange bow tie.

“That one.”

The attendant hands it to me, and I hold it out to her.

“For you, Blair Bear.”

She groans as she takes it. “I’m starting to regret letting Logan give me that nickname.”

“Too late now.”

Aspen grabs Blair’s hand again and pulls her toward the next row of stalls.

Blair glances back at me over her shoulder. “You coming, Mr. Ashford?”

Yeah. That’s not helping.

“Unfortunately.”

* * *

With all three of us working our way through candy apples, Aspen insists on showing Blair the pumpkin we entered into the decorating competition.