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I frown.

“Willow.” I can’t keep the annoyance out of my voice. “I’ve told you a dozen times to make yourself at home. You don’t have to ask permission. I’m not Dylan.”

She recoils slightly, and I instantly regret my sharp tone, but this is the one thing that’s gotten on my nerves. She asks my permission before she does almost anything. Eat, drink, watch TV—whatever it is, she comes to me first.

I understand she’s a guest in the home of someone she barely knows, but I’ve told her it’s fine. Anything she wants to do is okay with me. Hell, I’d let her sleep in my bed if she wanted to, though I didn’t tell her that.

“I—I’m sorry.” She dips her head, as if embarrassed, and I let out a huff of frustration.

I didn’t mean to upset her, but she has to start learning that it’s okay to be autonomous. That not everyone is like Dylan. That I absolutely am not like him.

I don’t know if I scared her, hurt her feelings, or something else, but I need to smooth things over, so I put down the carton of ice cream in my hand and walk over to her.

“I didn’t mean to snap,” I say quietly, “but you’ve got to stop asking for permission. Contrary to the way you’ve been treated, you’re not a child.”

“I know. I just…” She pauses, her eyes fixating on all the things I’ve put on the counter. “Are you… are those… sprinkles?” She says it like it’s a diamond or something.

“You like sprinkles, princess?”

“I haven’t had sprinkles in… forever.”

“I was about to make a hot fudge sundae. Do you want one?”

“I shouldn’t.” She chews her lip. “But I really do.”

“Then make yourself one.” I motion to everything that’s laid out. “I only have vanilla ice cream, but there’s everything else. Whipped cream, fudge, sprinkles, chopped walnuts, cherries—I can even slice up a banana if a banana split is more your style.”

She stares at the items on the counter, a mischievous smile on her lips. “I want…everything.”

I hand her a bowl and the ice cream scoop. “Have at it.”

She looks at me for a moment and then puts the smallest, saddest scoop of ice cream I’ve ever seen in her bowl.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I shake my head.

“Seriously? What the hell is that? A serving for a canary?” I pry the scoop from her hands and put two full clumps of ice cream in her bowl.

“Hudson!” She tries to protest, but I’m done with her being timid and shy and unsure. It’s time for her to break out of the emotional prison she’s been in and start living.

“Hush.” I add a little of everything and then spray some of the canned whipped cream on the top. It splatters everywhere, little specks painting her hoodie and even her cheek.

“Hey!” Without hesitation, she flicks the whipped cream with her fingers, shooting a glob in my direction. It settles on the bottom of my T-shirt, and for a split second, we both freeze. She seems shocked that she did something so bold, and I have to resist the urge to laugh.

I look at the whipped cream, which is now sliding down my front, and then narrow my eyes.

“I see how it is… this is how you want to do things? Because I’ll have you know I am a master at food fighting.”

Her face goes from horrified to playful in a heartbeat.

She snatches the whipped cream can from my hand and squirts it full force onto my chest.

“Now it’s on.” I dig my fingers into the bowl of sprinkles and flick a handful in her direction, getting them in her hair, her clothes, and—my housekeeper is going to kill me—all over the floor.

“Don't come any closer!” she yells, holding out the can of whipped cream like a weapon. “I have whipped cream, and I’m not afraid to use it!”

I grab the nearby banana and hold it out. “En garde!”