Page 74 of Beauty and the Daddy

"Thirteen, fourteen... um, fifteen..." She counts out loud. "Sixteen, seventeen…That's a lot!"

I bite my lip. "Actually, we need about two hundred more."

Her jaw drops. "Two hundred? How many is that? I don't know how to count all that."

"Well, here's a trick—we can just dump a whole bunch in at once." I hand her the bag. "Go crazy."

She upends the entire bag into the bowl with manic glee. At least a handful bounce off the countertop and hit the floor.

"Oops." She giggles.

"Perfect technique," I assure her. "The floor chips are for the cookie gods."

She nods seriously. "Daddy says when you spill something, it's an offering."

"Your dad said that?" I can't imagine the Beast of New York talking about "offerings" for spilled anything.

"Uh-huh. When I knocked over his whiskey."

Now that tracks.

Sofia kneels down to pick up the fallen chocolate chips. I grab a paper towel and start cleaning up the mess with her. "How about you stir the dough while I handle the floor chips?"

She takes the wooden spoon and stirs like a tiny Olympian.

"This is fun," Sofia sighs, then her voice drops. "The girls at school always talk about baking with their mommies."

The words hit like a physical blow. I set down my spoon, crouching to her level.

"Do you miss having a mommy to bake with?" I ask gently.

She shrugs, suddenly fascinated by the chocolate chips. "Sometimes. But Daddy says Mommy's watching from heaven, and she'd be happy I found someone to teach me."

My throat tightens. "What else does Daddy tell you about her?"

"He shows me pictures. She was pretty. Like a princess. And he tells me stories about how they met and stuff."

My heart hits the brakes.Easy.

"What kind?" I ask.

"This one time, Daddy bought Mommy big diamonds. She got mad because he was late to meet her and threw them back in his face."

Icon. Legend. Woman after my own heart. I smile, and it hurts.

"Okay," I say, rallying to safer grounds before the kid gets sad. "Cream the butter like it owes us money."

The hand mixer whirs, and vanilla sweetens the air. I teach her the egg crack: one confident tap, no shell storm.

"Can I do the next one?"

"You're certified," I say.

She smacks too hard, and the egg explodes. We both gasp, then laugh with our whole bodies.

"Emergency cleanup," I cry, passing her paper towels.

We stir. We sneak dough. We commit small felonies against baking practices.