Page 73 of Knot By Design
Norah glances back, smiling.
“Sorry,” I say. “She doesn’t always?—”
“You don’t have to apologize,” she says gently. “She’s sweet.”
We start walking. Or rather, Norah and Maisie start walking hand-in-hand while I juggle Rufus, bags, and the shreds of my sanity.
We reach the flower shop. Bells jingle as we step in. Warmth envelops us, along with the smell of pine, cloves, and something sugary.
“Wow,” Maisie whispers, spinning slowly. “It’s so pretty in here.”
Norah bends to her level. “Thank you. It’s just as pretty as you!”
Maisie beams.
Rufus, meanwhile, decides to cause a natural disaster. He barrels straight into a poinsettia display, sending flowers toppling in every direction. Soil everywhere. Slobber everywhere. Leaves stuck to his face.
I groan. “Rufus—shit—Norah, I’m so?—”
She’s laughing. Actually laughing. Bright and warm and not even a little annoyed.
“It’s fine,” she says, bending to pick up a pot. “He’s adorable. Messy, but adorable.”
Relief loosens my shoulders a little.
“Let me make you guys cocoa,” she says, brushing off her hands. “It goes better with cookies.”
“I can help,” I offer.
“You can sit,” she counteroffers. “Maisie can help me.”
And Maisie is already following her, hanging on her every word.
I lean against the counter, watching them. Something about the sight pulls at me in an unexpected way.
Norah’s teaching her how to scoop cocoa powder, Maisie’s listening like she’s being handed state secrets, both of them smiling. The ease between them surprises me. Warms me.
Norah hands me a mug a few minutes later. It’s bright blue with white lettering: “I Like Big Cups and I Cannot Lie.”
I cock an eyebrow.
She laughs. “I have a collection.”
“Noted,” I say, sipping. It’s good. Really good. Rich and sweet and warm enough to melt something inside my chest.
Maisie gets a snowman mug and a cookie, which she dips straight into the cocoa. She sits next to Rufus, who’s curled up with the dignity of a dog who absolutely did not destroy an entire display ten minutes ago.
“I have some more. Do you want them?”
Maisie nods enthusiastically, her mouth already full.
Norah hands her the plate of cookies. Maisie eats two, then looks between the last one and me.
“You have it,” she tells me.
“I think Norah should have it,” I tell my niece. Then, turning to Norah, I add, “You already lost part of your lunch.”
She shakes her head and breaks it cleanly in two, handing me half. When I reach out to take it, I try to ignore the sparks that lick up my spine at the contact.
