“You have no idea what kind of monster you just unleashed, do you?” When he grinned at her with a questioning look, Tessa said, “Who’s going to put all those pieces together?”
A millisecond passed before his face dropped. “Oh…” Then his eyes fell closed as he whispered, “Shit.”
And Tessa burst out laughing.
12
“Okay,” Zach said, pulling the millionth sticker from the paper. “This is the very last one.”
Zach was lying on his stomach on the floor. His back hurt and his bad shoulder was killing him. He’d been there for two freaking hours, putting the dollhouse together, assembling all the tiny furnishings, adding stickers to the building. The damn house was two feet taller than Sophia.
His daughter ran over from the opposite side of the dollhouse where she was arranging furniture. With her Pegasus tucked beneath her arm—she hadn’t put it down once—she gingerly took the sticker from Zach’s finger with what had to be the hundredth “Thank you” of the night. The kid was ridiculously polite. And sweet. And funny. And a-freaking-dorable. Zach still couldn’t believe she was his.
“Look, Mommy, ballet slippers.”
Tessa glanced up from her computer where she sat curled in a corner of the sofa. “Pretty. Where are you going to put them?”
Sophia looked at Zach. “Where does they go?”
“Let’s look at the box.”
Sophia crouched a little, pressing her hands to her knees as she studied the box with a wrinkled brow. She pointed to the picture. “There.”
“Wow, you’re good,” Zach told her. “Bet you’d find Waldo in record time.”
“Who’s Waldo??
??
“A cartoon character. He hides in pictures. I’ll get you a book, and we’ll look for him together.”
“Okay,” she chirped, then carefully pasted the portrait of ballet slippers on one of the interior walls.
Tessa pushed from the sofa, picked up Zach’s empty glass, and wandered to the kitchen. He shouldn’t be ogling her jeans-clad ass. Shouldn’t be wishing he could slide his hands down the backs of those creamy thighs. Shouldn’t be remembering just how he’d spread her legs and driven deep into her body when they’d been together that one night. But he did all of the above until she turned into the kitchen and disappeared.
“Mommy.” A whine laced Sophia’s voice. “Can I have apple juice?”
“You’ve already brushed your teeth. I’ll get you water.”
She harrumphed and dropped to the floor. “I no want water.”
“Sounds like someone’s tired,” she said, turning the corner into the living room again, carrying a fresh glass of iced tea for Zach and water in something called a sippy cup for Sophia. She handed the drinks to them and told Sophia, “Maybe you can get Zach to share his iced tea since it’s not sweetened.” Then she said in a sing-song “But you have to ask nice.”
Sophia walked on her knees to Zach’s side. She got so close, Zach could see the shards of hazel in her off-color eye and smell the soap Tessa had wiped her down with before tossing on a frilly, pink pajama top. Sophia pushed out a tired, pathetic “Peeeeez?”
Zach smiled and offered her the drink. With Pegasus tucked under her arm, Sophia reached for the tea. As soon as he handed off the glass of tea, the way it wobbled in her little hands told him he’d made a mistake.
“Oh no,” Tessa said. “Sophia don’t—”
Too late.
Neither of them could grab the glass away before Sophia tipped it back, lost control and spilled the whole glass on herself—and Pegasus.
Zach scrambled to his knees and grabbed the empty glass at the same time Tessa reached out and supported Sophia’s back to keep her from tipping over and hitting her head on the floor. But Sophia was already screaming.
“Is cold, Mommy. Mommy, I spilled. Pegsis. Pegsis is wet.”
“Shh, I know,” Tessa said, lifting Sophia by the arms and setting her on her feet. “You’re both fine. We’ll dry you off. Get you new jammies.”