Page 56 of Face Off With Fate

Her little hand hit mine, those blue eyes that matched her father’s beaming up at me from the shopping cart seat, just as proud of herself as I was.

“Hey, I can spell my name,” she called out to the lady pushing past us. The woman gave her a, “Good job!” before moving on, a smile on her face.

Little kids, man.

It was comical how different Goldie was from her dad when it came to talking to strangers. The Stars literally forced him to work with someone to help him refrain from growling at people like a rabid animal. Meanwhile, his angel of a daughter talked to anyone she came across. What I would give to go on an outing with the two of them, just so I could count the number of times his jaw ticked as she struck up a conversation.

Speaking of which.

I shot off a text to Itzel asking how it was going. I’d sent four to Monroe, but all he sent back was a middle finger emoji.

“Whas that say?”

“What’s what sa—” I nearly choked on a laugh when I saw what her little finger pointed to. “That says daddy.”

Her face lit up. “Like my daddy! Can we get it for him please, Gracie?” Goldie clasped her little fingers together and held them in front of her chest. “I know he will lobe it.” She tacked on pouty lips and puppy dog eyes.

I very much doubted he would “lobe” the cropped women’s tee. But there was no way in hell I was explaining the difference between “Daddy” and daddy to her.

“No,” was on the tip of my tongue, but then the part of my brain that thought up all the ideas that usually led to trouble reminded me of what a pain in the ass Monroe could be.

“You know what?” I searched through the sizes for the largest one. “You’re so right, girl, he will totally love this.”

The fact that little kids couldn’t pick up on sarcasm was the best, because she had no clue I thought her plan was brilliant for very different reasons.

Thankfully, the style and sizing were more unisex, despite being in the women’s section. There was a real chance Monroe could shove the tiny bit of fabric over his broad shoulders and muscular chest. The sleeves could probably encircle his biceps, and the hemline would show off hi⁠—

“Gracie?”

I snapped back to reality, cheeks heating a bit from being caught fantasizing about her dad in front of her.

“Just looking for his size.”

The smile I gave her was so guilty, but she didn’t seem to notice as I tossed the goods into the cart.

“Gracie, can we have a birfday party?” she asked as we passed an aisle with party supplies.

“Like for your birthday?”

Blonde waves went flying. “No. I already had my birfday.”

Sarcasm wasn’t the only thing little kids didn’t understand—their ability to provide important information was also sketchy.

“Well then, what do you mean?”

“Like for you,” Goldie said, reaching a hand out toward a tinsel garland. “Can I come to your birfday party? You can have those because they are so cute.” She pointed to a tiara banner that said Birthday Princess. “I want to go to a princess party. Daria said she was going to a princess party, but I couldn’t come because it was for her cousin and her mom doesn’t like people.” Her bottom lip stuck out in a pout.

Okay. So, kids also give way too much information.

“You know what?” I grabbed the banner and a pack of invites dotted with pink glittery crowns, tossing them on top of the “daddy” crop top, tub of icing, and seventeen types of sprinkles. “What the hel—heck. What the heck. You can totally come to my princess party.”

Goldie’s ear-piercing squeal and clapping made up for the fact that I had no clue how I was accomplishing this event. Part of me was banking on her forgetting about it when the sugar rush kicked in.

I’d scrubbed every inch of the counters about five times. Who knew I’d need twelve arms to keep up with the mess spreading icing produced? Round six was underway when the door leading from the kitchen to the garage opened.

“Finally, you’re back,” I said, a little too quick.

Monroe paused in the doorway, the yellow glow from the garage light creating a halo. He blinked a few times before looking down at his watch. “It’s barely nine-forty.”