Page 152 of You've Got Hate Mail
“Your job, Daddy,” Lav says, holding the brush out to me.
I work out the mess on her head while Cricket scrambles more eggs.
Like we’re a family.
The three of us.
The thought sends a chill down my spine at the same time it sends fireworks through my heart.
I’m the disaster today.
I finish braiding Lav’s hair as Cricket finishes with the eggs, and Lav orders us both to sit and eat.
Next to each other.
While she sings eighties pop hits to us.
“Where did you hear those songs?” I ask her between bites when she pauses for a breath.
“From Dori.”
“Dori?” I repeat.
Dori’s maybe twenty-four. How does she know eighties pop hits?
“All the kids are getting into retro eighties jams,” Cricket tells me. “I did a lifestyle piece on the re-rise of hair bands about three months ago.”
“You should do a lifestyle piece on me,” Lav says. “I have a lot of life and a lot of style.”
She punctuates her sentence by flexing an arm muscle, which makes me cough until I nearly get egg up my nose.
“Dragon slayers have to work out,” Cricket says to me.
“Clearly,” I manage to force out.
“Daddy, do Cricket’s hair. I’m getting dressed.”
My daughter scampers back down the hallway.
Cricket and I look at each other.
My gaze drops to her mouth.
I swallow hard.
The way I want to kiss her—but the way I’m getting worried she’ll think it’s more than I can offer.
Her gaze drops to my mouth, and she licks her lips.
Fuck it.
Fuck it.
I hook a hand behind her neck and pull her in for a hard, desperate kiss.
“Good morning,” she murmurs as I pause, listening for Lav, who’s quit singing.
Cricket strokes my short beard, a smile seeming to make her glow.
