Page 60 of Dust Storm

“Two feet away at all times,” Gracie recited.

“Gold star for you, Little Griffith,” I clipped as I saved the spreadsheet.

Gracie beamed like I had just said she was a princess.

I sighed, lacing my hands together as I turned to them. “Yes?”

“Can you help me pick out an outfit for school tomorrow before my dad gets back?” Bree blurted out at the same time Gracie said, “I want big hair like the cheerleaders for Dallas. Can you do it?”

Instead of immediately shooting them down, I at least pretended to think it over.

I tapped my pen on the notebook in front of me. “No.”

“Ugh,” Bree groaned. “Why not?”

While the older Griffith turned on the teenage attitude, the younger one pulled out a set of killer puppy eyes.

“Please?” she begged. “We don’t have a mom to help us with this stuff. Dad tries, but some things require a woman’s touch.”

What in Carrie Bradshaw’s world was happening.

I pressed my fingers to my temples. “I’m sorry—what kind of eleven-year-old talks like that? I can’t decide if you’re trying to act like you’re three or thirty. And second, did you just pull the dead mom card to try to guilt trip me?”

Gracie nodded with an ear-to-ear grin on her face. “Yep. It usually works too.”

“Dear God, you two need to stop going to therapy. You skipped right over ‘well adjusted’ and headed straight for manipulative.”

“Please,” Bree begged.

Not my children, not my problem.

I hit them with a dismissive smile. “Well, with your dead mom, you’re halfway to being fairytale princesses. It’s statistically impossible to be a fantasy heroine without two dead parents or a dead parent and an evil stepmother. Find some mice and singing birds and figure it out, ladies.”

Bree went on the offensive, surprising me when she planted both hands on the side of the roll-top desk that I had turned into my workspace. “I thought New York women loved makeovers.”

“Ah, that’s where you’re correct. I love a good makeover. But like you said, New Yorkwomenlove makeovers. Come back when you’re eighteen.”

“Cass—”

“Excuse me?” I cut Gracie’s whining off with a raised eyebrow. “That’s Miss Parker or Cassandra to you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work.”

I thought I was home free until the whispering started. Children whispering sounded like nails on a chalkboard. It made my skin crawl.

“What about Saturday?” Bree countered when they broke from the cone of near-silence.

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t have to work on Saturday,” Gracie said. “If Dad takes us into town, will you go shopping with us?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Gracie griped.

“I am many things, but I am neither a babysitter nor a nanny. Ask your aunt or your grandma to take you.”

“Grandma makes us shop in the kids section and Aunt Becks needs to stay off her feet,” Bree chimed in.

I choked back a laugh. “I’m not sure if you’ve looked in the mirror lately, but you should be shopping in the kids’ section because—spoiler alert—you are kids.”

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