Page 69 of Face Off With Fate

I shook my head, dumping the pasta into the rolling water. “You would do that rather than go and look.”

“Oh please, you’re telling me you walk over every time? Although…” I looked over my shoulder when she hadn’t said anything more. Her head was tilted, bottom lip trapped between her teeth. “That much walking would explain why you have such a nice ass.”

“Do you even think about the shit you’re going to say? Or just go with whatever pops up first?”

“Oh, that was the filtered version of what was in my mind,” she teased.

“I can never tell if you’re fucking with me or not.”

Goldie appeared by Graciella’s side and handed her a slightly crumpled sheet of paper, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement. “Dis is for you.”

“This is for me?” Graciella’s smile was clear in her voice as she unfolded the crumpled piece of paper. “It’s gorgeous. Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a better piece of artwork.”

“Hey, I’m the one you normally give your art to.” I extended my neck to get a glimpse.

Truth was, I needed another piece of artwork like I needed a hole in the head. Goldie loved art, and every piece was special. I’d learned that the hard way one day, when she’d opened the trash and found some of her older work in it.

I’d really thought the stuff she’d made a year earlier was in the clear for getting rid of. I’d been sorely mistaken.

“Dad, you have to share,” Goldie scolded.

“How about this? We will put it up on the fridge so we can all enjoy it.”

Graciella slipped off the counter, her hand dragging down my back and sending heat sparking along my skin as she passed behind me.

“You have to tape it to the side because the magmits don’t work on the fridge.” Goldie followed close behind, grabbing the tape from where she knew I kept it in the junk drawer for this very reason.

It was all too natural—too easy to slip into feeling like Graciella belonged here.

Thatcher’s words echoed in my mind, cracking the hard exterior of my hesitation to let someone new in.

The whole situation had me so out of sorts that I completely forgot the last thing I’d taped to the fridge until I heard Graciella’s shocked tone.

“Wait, why is my fix-it list on here?”

Shit.

“You know, I kind of thought I was being hustled the other day, but it looks like the seventy thousand bedtime requests are a nightly routine,” Graciella mused from on top of the laundry room counter, legs pulled up, with that damn notebook resting against her knees.

“Oh, you were definitely getting hustled.” I tossed another one of her bright shirts into the washer. “Same way I do every night since she was old enough to speak. That girl’s always had me wrapped around her finger.”

Not the only girl, apparently…

I thumbed the lace in my hand, pushing down the sick desire to take them.

“Monroe, you don’t have to do my⁠—”

I cut her off. “Already told you it was no big deal. When you have a five-year-old, you’re constantly doing laundry. Adding your shit doesn’t make a difference.”

And my players won’t accidentally see your underwear.

It was a ridiculous thing to worry about, but here I fuckin’ was, a load of her clothes in my washer.

“Are you sure?” She bit at her lip, eyes pinging between me and the basket I’d carried in. Then, in a softer voice, she added, “You like being a dad.”

My hand paused over the drum, a princess dress clutched in my palm. Something warm and prideful stabbed behind my ribcage at her comment. Being a good player and a good coach was nice, but being a good dad was what I really cared about.

And not something many witnessed. But she did.