Page 57 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

Sora

The bitter chill of late fall seeps through the brownstone windows. The last few withered leaves skitter across the city sidewalks, as the frost-dust begins to take over the concrete.

I’ve always loved this transitional time in New York—when autumn reluctantly surrenders to winter, when the city wraps itself in twinkle lights and promises of snow.

The air carries the specific perfume of change: decaying leaves, chimney smoke, and that indefinable edge that whispers of holidays nearing.

I wrap my cardigan tighter around myself, the soft wool inadequate against the growing cold outside.

But the brownstone feels warmer than it ever has before, which has nothing to do with the electric fireplace.

It’s something else, something I’m still getting used to—the sound of small feet patting across hardwood floors, a little girl’s laughter echoing in spaces that used to be meaningless.

Over the past few weeks, Dakota has made this house into a home.

The front door opens with a decisive thud, followed by the telltale rustling of paper grocery bags. Dakota’s excited squeal echoes through the house as she abandons her coloring book on the coffee table and dashes toward the entryway, her socked feet slipping slightly on the polished wood.

“Daddy’s home!” she chirps, her voice pitched high with excitement.

I wipe my hands on a kitchen towel, breathing in the comforting vanilla scent of the cookie dough I’ve started prepping, and follow her at a more measured pace.

My heart does that ridiculous little flutter it always does now when Forrest comes home.

Home. Was this ever really a home before Forrest and Dakota invaded in the best way possible?

Taking in the sight of Forrest juggling several overstuffed paper bags while Dakota tugs at his jacket, I can’t help but smile.

His dark hair is windblown, cheeks flushed from the chill outside, and there’s that crooked half-smile that still makes my stomach perform gymnastic routines that would score ten out of ten with Olympic judges.

“Let me help,” I offer, stepping forward to relieve him of a bag that looks dangerously close to tearing, the paper already damp at the corners from the light drizzle outside.

Our fingers brush during the exchange, and the jolt that courses through me is anything but accidental.

Three weeks of crossing lines that shouldn’t be crossed, and still every touch feels electric.

“Did you get everything on the list?” I ask, peering into the bag I’ve claimed, catching whiffs of chocolate and sugar and possibility. “Even the mini M&M’s and toffee bits?”

“No, I completely ignored your detailed, color-coded, alphabetized shopping list and just grabbed whatever shiny objects caught my attention,” he deadpans, shaking snowflakes from his hair like a retriever coming in from a frigid pond.

I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re wildly exaggerating.”

“Not wildly,” he answers, setting the remaining bags on the kitchen counter with a satisfying thud.

I may have listed what I wanted, and then two to three alternates per each ingredient, in case the local bodega was out.

“And yes, I got your twelve different kinds of sugar. And the pretzel pieces, and the three types of chocolate chips, an assortment of candy, and something called ‘candy melts’ which seems like it’s more chocolate. ”

I find myself watching Dakota as she eagerly inspects the grocery bags, her face a picture of childhood excitement. It strikes me suddenly, how full her early memories will be. How present Forrest is in her life, despite everything else.

“You know,” I say, keeping my voice light, though the thought feels heavy, “Dakota is so lucky.”

Forrest looks up, surprised. “How so?”

“You’re so present with her,” I explain, clearing my throat to carefully hide the unexpected emotion tightening me up.

“Early memories of my dad are so few and far between. He was never available, even if he was physically around. But Dakota’s childhood album will be filled with moments like this—with you making her the center of your universe. I love that so much for her.”

Forrest’s expression softens, his eyes searching my face. “J.P. really missed out.” He opens his mouth like he wants to say more, but the words seem to escape him.

“Oven’s preheated. Time to roll,” I say, sparing him from the deepening conversation. Too deep for sweets. We’re supposed to be having lighthearted fun right now.

He proceeds to dramatically pull items from the bags, holding each one up like a game show host presenting prizes. “See? Got ’em all. I think I deserve some kind of medal.”

“Your medal is getting to eat the cookies when they’re done,” I say primly, sorting through the ingredients with a satisfied nod.

Forrest steps closer, lowering his voice. “If I forgo the cookies, can I have a different kind of reward?” he asks, his breath warm against my ear, carrying the faint scent of mint.

The heat rises in my cheeks embarrassingly fast. I glance pointedly at Dakota, who’s now rummaging through one of the bags with singular focus. “Is there only one thing on your mind these days?” I whisper back.

Since we broke the seal at the haunted mansion, Forrest and I have been sexing like a pop hit on repeat.

Nonstop. Every day. Anytime we’re alone, we’re naked.

It’s never enough. We toggle between surprise shower quickies, christening every room of the brownstone while Dakota’s at school, and then slow, tender touches under the sheets after his daughter’s gone to bed.

And now I truly understand the definition of “a lot of sex.” Twice a week? Ha! Seems laughable now.

“You like that it’s always on my mind,” he counters softly, letting his lips linger a moment too long on my neck.

“Hush, you,” I warn with mock sternness, stepping away before I do something ridiculous like kiss him right here in the kitchen with his daughter three feet away. “Dakota and I are busy making a very special treat tonight.”

Dakota bounces on her toes, clapping her small hands together. The sound reminds me of rain on a tin roof—light, steady, joyful. “Can I tell Daddy the surprise now?”

I nod fervently. “Have at it, sweetie.”

“We’re making kitchen sink cookies!” she announces proudly, her blue eyes wide with excitement. “Like the ones from Papa Beans. Surprise ! I’ve never baked before but Sora’s going to show me how.”

Forrest slides me a teasing sideways glance. “Well, isn’t that the blind leading the blind?”

“Shut it. We’re doing just fine. And my cooking skills are greatly improving.”

“That they are,” Forrest says. “You cook Top Ramen in the microwave like a Michelin-star chef.”

“I’m choosing to ignore you now,” I snark at a chuckling Forrest before turning my attention back to Dakota.

“Kitchen sink cookies are special,” I continue, helping her climb onto the step stool I’ve positioned at the counter.

The wooden stool wobbles slightly, and I steady it with my hand instinctually.

Parenting is a minefield of potential disasters I never had to navigate before.

But I’m getting better at it. “They’re made up of little bits and pieces that represent different things.

The base is always the same, but what makes them special is how you customize them to match your own personality. ”

“That’s why we need all this stuff,” Dakota adds seriously, gesturing to the array of ingredients now scattered across the counter, her small hand sweeping through the air with impressive authority.

“Because we all get to put in the things we like best! Our cookies are all going to be different, Daddy.”

“Why’s that?” Forrest asks with an uninterruptible focus on his daughter.

“Because Sora says…she told me that…” Dakota scrunches up her little face, trying to remember my cookie lesson from before. Lost for words, she looks at me for an assist.

“We talked about how these cookies are like people.” I scoot the bowl of cookie dough close to her.

“The base is the same. We’re all made of the same stuff.

” I gesture to the cornucopia of cookie fill-ins displayed across the kitchen island.

“But it’s the little pieces we add to ourselves that make us beautifully unique.

No two cookies ever come out exactly the same. ”

He leans against the refrigerator door, his gaze peeling away from his daughter and landing on me. “Your cookie parables are surprisingly poetic.”

“What are par-y-bles?” Dakota asks half-heartedly. She’s licking her lips, gaze deadlocked on the bag of gummy worms. Me too, friend. This kid is my spirit animal.

“I’ll explain later, smarty-pants,” Forrest says. “Now, how can I help?”

I turn to Forrest and place a gentle hand on his arm, feeling the solid warmth of him through his shirtsleeve before I give him a little nudge. “You, out . You did your job. Thank you for the groceries. Dakota and I’ve got this covered. We’re bonding.”

He lights up like Vegas at night, flashing me a smile that makes me think I just conquered my first marathon—so proud. So impressed. “Careful, cookie girl. Keep all this up and I’m never going to be able to let you go.”

“Who’s asking you to?” I give him a gentle push toward the living room. “Grab a beer, and go put your feet up. There’s a game on, I think.”

Forrest hesitates, glancing between Dakota and me with an unreadable expression. His eyes, the exact shade of a summer sky, search my face. “Are you sure all this is okay with you?” he asks quietly, his voice dropping so only I can hear.

I understand immediately what he’s asking.

It’s the same question that’s been unspoken but palpable for weeks now, as persistent and inescapable as the scent of his cologne that clings to my pillowcases.

The acknowledgment of what’s developing here—the tentative family unit we’re becoming, despite all our initial intentions.