Page 47

“See you later,” Lena says before she turns to Rosie. “Let’s get you dressed, huh?”

For fuck’s sake. At this rate, I’m never going to get to work.

Spinning around on my heel, I tell her, “She is dressed.” I gesture to Rosie’s orange onesie with a giraffe on it. “I did that myself.”

She turns and gives me a look. The kind that saysI’m not mad, just disappointed… and a little impressed you’ve survived this long on your own.

“It’s Tuesday,” she tells me, like that explains everything.

“And?”

“She needs her duck dress.”

“Her what?”

“The duck dress. She wears it on Tuesdays.”

I don’t even know what to say to her anymore. “That’s a thing now?”

“We feed the ducks on Tuesdays. She needs to wear her duck dress. It’s tradition.”

“She’s eighteen months old.”

Her eyes roll so hard I’m surprised they don’t pop out of her head.

Strolling into the hallway, she shields Rosie’s face as she passes me like she’s trying to protect her from my foul mood. “No offense here, Wes, but you obviously woke up on the wrong side this morning, and you’re killing our vibe. Go to work.”

“Are you throwing me out of my own house?”

“Yes.”

I stare at the ceiling. Maybe there’s patience up there. “Sweet Jesus.”

Lena sighs and walks away like I’m the one being unreasonable.

I don’t know how this woman hijacked my house,my routines, and now my niece’s closet, but I do know that when I walk out the door and hear Rosie giggle at some insane dating advice, and Lena sing-songing, “Duck dress, duck dress,” I find myself smiling.

God help me.

Seventeen

Lena

Grocery shopping is an art form.

Some people treat it like a chore, a mindless errand they rush through while half-listening to music.

Not me.

No, I’m in the big leagues now because I’m a proud, card-carrying member of the Fresh Meal Every Night Club.

I wasn’t inducted willingly.

Wes made it clear that he appreciates home-cooked meals for Rosie, and now, somehow, I’m the executive chef of the Turner House. Not that I mind. I like cooking, and I like knowing Rosie gets healthy food. But also,I enjoy a challenge.

I go into every grocery run prepared—mentally, physically, and with a half-assed list that I’ll completely ignore by aisle four.

Rosie is settled in the cart, her feet kicking against the metal as I weave through the aisles. She’s clutching her stuffed elephant in one hand and a giant plastic soup ladle in the other because we lost the battle against random impulse purchases a long time ago.