Page 78 of Dust Storm

“Yes, my queen,” Bree blurted out, then dashed past me to go back up the stairs.

Part of me wanted to walk into the kitchen and start dinner like this Twilight Zone nightmare wasn’t happening. The other part of me was curious.

Instead of pulling out the ingredients for barbecue chicken, I sauntered over and fixed the tiara that was sliding off her head. “Wanna explain to me why my children are calling you ‘my queen’?”

Cassandra smirked. “I’m not big on the ‘ma’am’ thing. It makes me sound old. So I told them to rebrand. “My queen” was their idea, and I don’t hate it.”

I hid my smile behind a clenched fist pressed to my mouth. “And the bit about dressing for boys?”

She flopped back in the armchair as feet thundered overhead. “Dressing for boys is a rite of passage. Eventually they’ll realize that men of any age don’t notice clothes and they’ll start dressing to impress their girlfriends—which is far more expensive and time consuming.” She huffed dramatically, popping out the footrest and flopping one leg over the other, crossing her ankles. “Eventually they’ll come to the realization that everyone sucks equally and just start doing what they want. I’d tell you there’s hope, but I don’t care enough to lie to you. It’s a cycle that’s happened for thousands of years and cannot be avoided. The sooner you accept it and get used to handing over your credit card, the easier your life will be.”

I glanced over my shoulder to make sure the girls were still upstairs. “You’re wrong about one thing.”

Her frown was fierce. “I’m never wrong.”

“You’re wrong about men never noticing.” The silk blouse she was in gave it away. My hands were filthy, so I trailed a knuckle down the exposed red bra strap peeking out on top of her shoulder. “I notice everything, Cass.”

Her breath hitched. Long lashes shielded her eyes as they lowered to watch my finger.

“So I guess the question is, who are you wearing this for?”

Crimson lips curled in a victorious smile. “The last part of the equation.”

“What was that?”

Her grin was feline. “Me.”

I shoved my hand in my pocket. “Keep telling yourself that, Princess.”

Cassandra relaxed. “It’s ‘my queen.’”

I laughed. “Sweetheart, there’s only one situation where I’ll call you that and, I promise you, this ain’t it.”

A devilish look sparkled in her eye. “Is that so?”

“Okay, what about this?” Bree blurted out as she rushed down the stairs in a skirt and a Cowboys football t-shirt that was at least two sizes too small and kept riding up her stomach. She had gotten the shirt when she was Gracie’s age.

“Absolutely not,” Cassandra and I said together.

Cass punctuated it with a wave of the wand. “Go do better.”

“Yes, my queen!” Bree said as she bolted back up the stairs.

The charade lasted until I called the girls down for dinner. I was fairly certain they had emptied every garment out of their closets and were wading through clothes by the end.

I was half-tempted to make them pick it all up before they went to bed, then decided it could wait until the weekend.

We didn’t live in a state of melancholy. I worked hard to get my head right after Gretchen passed. All three of us went to therapy—together and separately—and found healthy coping mechanisms that helped us live relatively normal lives.

But there was an energy about the girls that I hadn’t seen in a long time.

Ever, if I was being honest.

Cassandra maintained her majestic composure and decorum throughout the meal, but entertained the onslaught of questions.

Gracie’s inquisition mostly centered around life in New York, which she called the happiest place on earth.

Bree’s curiosity massed around navigating friendships, an awful teacher, and a boy she had a crush on.

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