Page 45 of Oathbreaker

“What does she put on her hot dogs?”

“Chili and cheddar cheese.”

She makes a noise that sounds a little like “hmph,” as if it flusters her that I have the answers to her questions.

“Can I do the next one?” she asks as I put the first batch of waffles on a plate.

“Sure.” I help her lift the bowl, and she carefully pours some batter into the iron. We close it together, since I don’t want her to get burned, and then stand there watching it. Maybe it’s going to do a trick.

“What do you want on your waffle?” I ask while we wait.

“Butter and syrup.”

“Coming right up.” The syrup is already out, and I grab some butter from the fridge. “You want me to fix it for you or do you do it yourself?”

Her brows knit together. “Mommy always does it for me.”

“Mommy’s drying her hair. I’m happy to do it or let you do it. What do you prefer?” I’m treating her like she’s a lot older than four, but she acts a lot older than four.

“I guess you can do it.” She climbs back up on her stool while I fix her plate.

“One waffle or two?”

“Two, please.”

“Do I need to cut them up for you?”

“No, thank you.” She lifts the knife, but I can see she’s struggling. I also note that she’s left-handed.

Like me.

“You’re a lefty,” I say casually. “That makes things a little harder.”

She nods solemnly. “You have no idea.”

I chuckle. “Actually, I do. I’m left-handed too. Here, let me show you.” I lean over her from behind, taking both her hands in mine, demonstrating what I consider to be the best way to hold the knife and fork.

“Oh! That’s easier!” she says, excitement in her voice.

“Great.” I turn to grab the next batch of waffles just as Briar comes in.

“Good morning,” she says cautiously, looking from me to Frankie and back again.

“You still love white chocolate?” I ask her.

“Is that even a question?” she asks, laughing as she makes herself a cup of coffee.

“Just checking. I made white chocolate whipped cream to go with the waffles. And I cut up some strawberries.”

Her eyes widen as she looks around. “This is…lovely. Thank you.”

“Your hair looks really pretty,” I say, winking.

Her cheeks turn pink. “Th-thank you.”

Compliments still make her stutter.

Have the men in her life in the last five years not showered her with compliments? Made her feel beautiful? Let her know how desirable she is?