Wyatt headed over to the clinic early after someone called about their dog eating a sock. I hadn’t realized what a common injury that was or that it often involved surgery. If Chloe managed to convince her dad to get her a puppy, a topic she brought up at least seventy-two million times at dinner the night before, then I needed to be extra vigilant about making sure socks weren’t randomly lying around.

“Good morning, Chloe.” Chloe stumbled in half asleep, clutching her blue caterpillar stuffy. “Hungry?”

Instead of answering my question, she ran to me and gave me a great big bear hug. “Where daddy?” she asked.

“He’s at work already.” There was no need for her to know why, although if she did get her puppy I might need to use it as a lesson. “Would you like some cereal?” Being our first morning together, I had no idea what she liked, but cereal seemed to be a universal favorite and easy.

“No.” She shook her head. “I want eggs.” She put her caterpillar down on a chair and pushed a step stool designed for kids to not fall off the sides, up to the sink and began to wash her hands.

“Dippy or scrambled?” I watched her dry her hands and push the stool over to the refrigerator.

“Scrambled with toast,” she announced as she swung open the top doors and climbed up to grab the carton of eggs. She wasn’t being demanding in her choices, she was planning on creating them and, from the looks of things, it wasn’t the first time.

“Do you want to help?” I chuckled as she placed the eggs on the table and grabbed a small metal mixing bowl and whisk. And so our first breakfast making adventure began.

“Daddy lets me mix the eggs, but says I’m too little to crack them myself.” My heart warmed to the thought of Wyatt and Chloe cooking in the kitchen together. I had to be careful not to step on his toes by doing anything too cool in the kitchen with her if that was their thing. Those daddy daughter memories were worth gold and I didn’t want to diminish that in any capacity.

“You got shells in it.” She assessed my egg mixture. I grabbed a spoon from the drawer and made a few pathetic attempts to fish them out before she offered her two cents. “Don’t use a spoon, Oliver. Daddy always uses a shell.” She pointed to the pile of discarded shells. I picked one up and sure as shit, it attracted those little pieces to it like a little egg shell magnet.

“Whoa, your dad is a smart man. I had no idea that worked.” I didn’t admit that more than once, I’d been known to throw out my eggs and begin again after egg shell removal fail.

Chloe whisked the eggs as I got the pan ready and as I turned her mixture into buttery bits of eggy goodness, she placed the bread in the toaster for me to start. Chloe was amazingly well versed in the kitchen for someone so young. Visions of her preparing dinners when Wyatt came home filled my head.

“Here you go.” I placed a plate of food in front of her after everything was hot and ready. “Butter or jelly?” She had placed both on the table.

“Butter and cut it pretty.”

Cut it pretty. What did that even mean? I took my best stab at it and cut it diagonally.

“That’s not pretty.” She sighed as she picked up her fork.

“This?” I asked as I cut it again, this time wavy.

“No.” She shook her head with a smile before shoveling some of the eggs in her mouth.

“This?” I turn one into my best shark teeth impression.

As her laughter belted out, the last of my insecurities over taking the job fled. Sure, I still needed to figure out a way to deal with the insane attraction I felt for Wyatt and the more I knew him the more it wasn’t just attraction, but other than that it was perfect.

“You’re silly, Oliver.” She ate the shark in one bite, growling as she did. I didn’t know if she were being a dinosaur or another shark, but it was adorable.

“Maybe,” I conceded. “But I sure make pretty toast.”

Breakfast continued with laughter paired with a few stories of food she made with her dad. It was easy to see that he was as much her world as she was his.

After breakfast, we ventured out on a walk that turned into a trip to my favorite place, the library. Turned out, they had an over-the-top children’s library from some endowment and story hour was every day at ten. We stayed long after the story was over, reading books, coloring fairy tale worksheets and adding glitter to them. Whoever vacuumed that place needed a raise because three-year-olds and glitter were a recipe for sparkly everything, including the carpet. By the time we left we were both good and hungry.

Across the street from the library was a Café Om. I’d been a far too frequent visitor when I was with my alpha, less so during my time at Omega House.

“Do you want a fairy snack?” I asked as it caught my eye. I had a friend from school whose mother was from the UK and anytime they put sprinkles on something it became fairy this or that. Fairy toast was my favorite.

“You should never eat food from a fairy,” she scolded. It was adorable the way she went into protective mode. I’d put money on her being an alpha like her dad. “Everyone knows that.” I held a very vague memory of reading a fairy tale about it, but kept my lack of knowledge to myself. She didn’t need to know my ineptitude when it came to mythology.

“How about a cup filled with whipped cream and sprinkles?”

Her eyes lit up before she schooled her face and asked, “Does a fairy make it?”

“Naw. Just a barista at Café Om.” I pointed to the building before offering her my hand.

“I want a big one.”

“Deal,” I agreed before we crossed the street.

It was later than I thought and we grabbed a sandwich with our drinks or, in her case, whipped cream. It wasn’t long before she had the baristas wrapped around her finger, just as she had me. There was something about her that drew people in. By the time we left they were all saying good-bye to her by name.

I had lived in the city for so long, I had forgotten how nice it was to be able to walk on the sidewalks without people pushing past, horns honking in your ears, and people trying to sell you counterfeit pretty much everything. Walking home with Chloe was such a magical time. We sang songs, collected a few leaves and talked.

“You know what time it is?” I asked as we made our way to the stoop.

“You’re going to say nap time.” She pouted. It wasn’t her first time to the rodeo.

“I am.” We made our way in the house and kicked off our shoes in the mud room.

“I’m not tired,” Chloe whined, even as she made her way to her bedroom.

“But I am soooooo tired.” I yawned with such exaggeration I feared I went too far. “I can barely stay awake. Can you pretend to take a nap so I can too?”

“For you?” She looked at me with the skepticism of someone well beyond her years. Next time, more subtle yawn—check.

“For me.”

“Fine, but I’m not sleeping.” We reached her doorway and she gave me one more look before climbing into bed.

And true to her word, she didn’t sleep…at least for the first two minutes. Chloe’s nap lasted a solid two hours, which allowed me to get all of my course work done and I read a few chapters of a new book from the library, which I pulled out after I admitted to myself that I would sit there obsessing over Wyatt if I didn’t distract myself. Why couldn’t he be an old troll with smelly breath and a comb over. Or better yet, why couldn’t he be gay?