Page 59 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

“It’s a bug that makes your tummy hurt,” I explain, gently steering her toward the sink to wash her hands.

Dread fills her angelic little face. “There are bugs in the cookies?”

“Not that kind of bug.”

“Phew,” she says, “because I want to eat them all, Mommy.”

Oh. Abandoning the cookie scooper, I squat down to meet Dakota at eye level. “Did you just call me Mommy, Koda?”

She hangs her head, puckering her bottom lip in shame. “I’m sorry. Don’t be mad.”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m not mad at all. I was just wondering if you’re missing your mommy and maybe that’s why you called me that. Have you talked to her recently?”

Dakota bites her bottom lip and nods sheepishly. “Today before lunch we talked on FaceTime, but Mommy couldn’t talk too long because she had to go to sleep.”

“I bet she misses you so much. Do you miss her too?”

She nods again with a look on her face that’s mostly heartbreaking, but with a sprinkle of adorable.

“Know what? When I was your age, whenever I was sad and missing my dad, I’d make him a homemade card or draw him a picture. We could make something for your mommy and then mail it all the way to Tokyo. It’s the best way to show somebody how much you love them, by making them something special.”

“Like you’re making Daddy cookies?” she cleverly asks.

“Well, I’m making them for you too, cutie.” I wrinkle my nose at her.

“But, Sora…do you love Daddy?”

Dakota is incredibly blunt. I should’ve seen that question coming a mile away. “I um?—”

“Dakota, that’s enough chitchat. Let’s do bath and PJs while the cookies are baking, okay?” Forrest says, suddenly reappearing in the kitchen. Dakota spins on her heel and races for the stairs, probably remembering she has brand-new bath toys to play with tonight.

“Sorry, she’s getting so attached to you, she has no boundaries. If she asks you questions like that, you don’t have to feel pressured to lie to her or anything.”

I scrunch my bare toes against the polished wooden slats of the floor. “I’m surprised you didn’t wait to hear my answer before interrupting.”

“I don’t want to know.”

My face strains, contorted with surprise, confusion, and honestly, a little hurt. “Why not?”

He blows out a deep breath. “Because right now, I don’t know if I could handle the answer, one way or the other.”

“Oh.”

He shows me a pitiful smile. “See you after bathtime?”

I nod, showing him a fake smile right back. “Yep, I’ll be here. Just follow the smell of burning baked goods.”

“Woman, please don’t burn my cookies,” he says a little too seriously.

Forrest’s cookies look exactly like the Papa Beans version—M&M’s, three types of chocolate, toffee pieces, and pretzel bits arranged in precise proportions. Mine got a heavy dose of cinnamon chips and dried cranberries, which earns me a raised eyebrow from Forrest.

“Cinnamon and fruit? In a kitchen sink cookie? Why are you trying to make junk food healthy?”

“Some of us have sophisticated palates,” I reply with unnecessary decorum, which makes Dakota giggle.

“Yeah, Daddy,” she chimes in, clearly delighted to have an ally. “We’re so-fis-til-cated.” I chuckle to myself, knowing Dakota refused to try my cranberry delights.

Forrest clutches his chest in mock betrayal. “My own daughter, turned against me by the cookie lady.”

While the cookies cool, filling the brownstone with their sweet scent—butter and sugar caramelizing, chocolate melting into perfect puddles—Forrest disappears again upstairs. The floorboards creak above us, marking his path through the house to Dakota’s room.

He returns a few minutes later with her large princess tent and an armful of pillows and blankets, the fabrics carrying the faint, clean scent of my lavender detergent.

“What’s all this?” I ask, gesturing to the pile in his arms.

“Movie night,” he announces with all the authority of a royal proclamation. “Not just any movie night— fort movie night.”

Dakota squeals with delight, the high-pitched sound ricocheting off the kitchen tiles as she abandons her careful watch over the cooling trays to help her dad drag the coffee table aside.

The legs scrape against the hardwood with a sound that would normally make me cringe, but tonight I find I don’t mind.

Within minutes, Forrest transforms the living room into a cozy haven.

The princess tent serves as the centerpiece, but he extends the fort using sheets draped over chairs and the sofa, creating a sprawling canopy.

Inside, he arranges pillows and blankets in a nest-like configuration, complete with Dakota’s favorite stuffed animals as sentinels.

The minute Dakota realizes Forrest forgot Mr. Flops, she’s barreling up the stairs to retrieve him.

“Impressive architectural skills,” I remark as he secures the last corner with a clothespin, the sheets billowing slightly in the warm cross-breeze from the electric fireplace.

“All those summers mending fences and building barns have prepared me for this moment,” he replies with a wink. “Though I have to say, princess sheets are a lot more forgiving than barn timber.”

My lids drop to half-mast, as I nibble my bottom lip playfully. “So, when you were barn-building in Wyoming…was your shirt usually on or off?”

He tries to hide his smile. “Depends on the season.”

“Let’s say summer…” I close my eyes. “I imagine you were extra tan, shirt off, cowboy hat on your head, maybe sweating a little here?” I skate my fingers across my chest, just beneath my collarbone. I end my sweat charades with a shiver of desire.

When I open my eyes fully, Forrest is staring at me, amused and bewildered. “I’m sorry, am I interrupting your wet dream over there?”

“No.” I scowl. “Unrelated—do you still have any of your old cowboy hats, or…”

He bursts out in a rumbly laugh. “Subtle.”

Dakota comes barreling back down the stairs, Mr. Flops in one hand, a Barbie doll in the other.

“How much longer do we have to wait?” she asks, eyeing the cookies with the intensity of a hawk tracking a field mouse.

I tap a cookie, the heat of it no longer biting. “I think we’re ready.”

I’m met by her squeals of delight. I half expect her to dive into the cookie sheet, inhaling them by the fistful, but instead, like a little lady, she uses the step stool to retrieve three plates.

“Thank you for this,” he says softly, his voice suddenly serious. “She’s never been this self-sufficient. It’s because she feels at home.”

I turn to face him, our bodies close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him, smell the faint scent of his cologne mingled with the winter cold still clinging to his clothes. “You’re more than welcome. And thank you .”

“For what?”

“Making this place feel like home for me too,” I answer.

His eyes search mine, looking for something I’m not sure I’m ready to give voice to. “Sora?—”

Whatever he was about to say is cut off by Dakota’s insistence on us eating cookies while they’re warm.

I’ve somewhat lost my appetite, probably somewhere in Forrest’s hazel eyes.

I tend to lose a lot of things in there: my thoughts, any semblance of resistance.

It’s all swept away in the vortex of the beautiful nuclear weapons he calls pupils.

I couldn’t feel more full of love and warmth at the moment, especially with the aroma of warm cookies hovering in a sweet cloud, filling every corner of the brownstone.

The three of us crawl into the fort with a plate of warm cookies—including Dakota’s questionable gummy-worm creations—and a bowl of popcorn I’ve quickly microwaved, its buttery fragrance mingling with the cookies to create the perfect movie-night perfume.

“What movie should we watch?” Forrest asks, reaching for the remote, the plastic warm from sitting near the electric fireplace. Dakota’s sitting crisscross-applesauce, sandwiched by me and her dad, backs resting against the couch.

She eyes me, overly pensive for someone her age, then declares, “Sora should pick. She’s so nice and she made us cookies.”

“That’s very generous of you,” I tell her, touched by her consideration. This child, with her uncomplicated kindness and easy affection, has wormed her way into my heart with alarming speed.

“What’s your favorite?” she asks, her blue eyes wide and earnest in the fort’s dim light, reflecting the glow from the TV screen.

I consider for a moment, the weight of this small decision feeling strangely significant. “How about Lilo & Stitch ?”

“I don’t think I’ve seen that one,” Dakota admits, tilting her head curiously.

“Ma’am!” I declare with mock gravity. “You are missing out.”

“The one about the blue alien-dog?” Forrest comments, eyebrows raised. Clearly I’m dealing with a tough crowd tonight.

“It’s my favorite,” I tell them. “It’s about finding your family—not just the one you’re born with, but the one you adopt along the way. About finding where you belong, even if the rest of the world sees you as a misfit.”

Forrest gives me a look that’s almost too knowing, like he understands exactly why I’ve chosen this particular film. His eyes hold mine for a beat too long, saying things we’re not ready to put into words.

“Sounds perfect, right, Koda?” he asks her, but his gaze is still on mine. After she nods emphatically, he asks her to cover her eyes for just a moment. Her little hands fly obediently over her clamped eyes, and Forrest leans over his daughter to quickly find my lips.

The kiss shocks me. It feels new, and a little too risky. We can’t explain to Dakota what we are, because we don’t even know.

“What’re you doing?” I whisper-mouth at him.

“How could I not after all that?” he murmurs back.