Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“For safety,” he added.
I move into the kitchen, which is so bright and airy given the expanse of windows that look out over the backyard. The white cabinetry has glass fronts where neatly stacked plates and bowls are displayed along with pretty glasses. The substantial kitchen island is done in a royal blue and the counters are white-speckled granite. There are four high-back barstools with woven rattan seats that lend a bit of rustic charm to the otherwise clean lines. The pendant lights are vintage with Edison bulbs which hang from a coffered ceiling, but best of all is the six-burner Viking stove that has me itching to cook all the things. I love experimenting with food, creating recipes out of my own head. I firmly believe if I weren’t so passionate about childcare, I would’ve gone to culinary school to become a chef.
I hear footsteps coming up the short flight of stairs that lead from the garage into the kitchen and then the door swings open. Bowie Jane walks in first, a little red backpack with white unicorns on it slung over her shoulder. Her dad trails behind, carrying only one suitcase, and closes the door with a kick of his foot.
Setting down the case, he moves to Bowie Jane and puts a hand on her shoulder. I smile at the little girl who is a miniature Foster McInnis with long brown hair and large hazel eyes. She ducks her head slightly, as if overcome with a case of shyness.
“This is Mazzy,” Foster says, making the initial introduction.
I move closer to her, bend at the waist, and after only a brief glance at Foster, I hold my hand out. “Hi, Bowie Jane. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
She tentatively takes my hand, a small smile playing at her lips. As we shake, I lightly tease her. “Now… handshakes are great ways to meet new people but I’m hoping you and I become fast friends. That means we might progress to some fist or hip bumps, possibly a hug or two, and if we’re feeling really sassy, the always-popular jumping chest bump, which could potentially knock both of us on our booties.”
Bowie Jane giggles and I waggle my eyebrows at her. I nod at her dad and add, “But that’s just for us girls. Your dad’s so big, if he tried a hip or chest bump, he’d knock us into the next neighborhood.”
The little girl’s giggle turns into a bubbling laugh and I pull my hand from hers. “Are you hungry?”
She nods and lets the backpack slide from her shoulder where it lands on the floor. I don’t look at it but casually say, “Perfect. I made a breakfast casserole and I’ll start dishing that up. But first… why don’t you pick up your backpack and at least place it on the stool and then go wash your hands.”
“Okay,” Bowie Jane says as she heads to the half bath down the short hall. I’m relieved that the very first boundary I put in place—not throwing stuff on the floor—was easily accepted and didn’t make her wary of me. I’m nice like Mary Poppins but I can be a stickler for neatness.
“Well done,” Foster says as he nods to the backpack she placed on the stool. He holds his fist out and I laugh as I bump it.
I move to the foil-covered glass pan on the stove, having already pulled three plates from the cabinet. “I’m kind of a neat freak so I’m not going to let stuff like that slide.”
“And I’m glad of it,” Foster says as he moves to the single-brew fancy coffee machine. “Want a cup?”
“Sure,” I reply as I dish up the concoction of shredded potatoes, eggs, ground sausage and cheese. I was relieved to hear that Bowie Jane isn’t a picky eater, so I have latitude in what to cook.
Foster puts a cup in the machine, presses a few buttons and it starts grinding beans. He leans a hip against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. “Although admittedly, you might have to yell at me a time or two for leaving things where they shouldn’t be.”
“As long as you don’t fire me over it, I’ll get you turned around in no time. And… I don’t yell, although I’ve been told I’ve got a very firm, no-nonsense stare.”
Foster laughs and it’s rich, punctuating the deep timbre of his voice. “I cannot see you looking no-nonsense at all. You look like you’re always on the verge of some unexplained joy or about ready to have the time of your life. It’s a vibe.”
I blink at him in surprise, putting a last heaping serving of the casserole on a plate, which will be Foster’s because he’s bigger and needs more food. “I’ve never heard anyone describe me that way.”