Page 53 of Anchor Point

Rosie blushed, eyes dropping to her plate. “No, that’s what you call me.”

Now I was the one blushing, because I had and hadn’t even realized it at the time.

“Okay, time-out.” I lifted my hands in surrender. “Your mom is right. We need to chill on this a little.”

Rosie’s head flew up, wide, accusing eyes aimed at her mother. I’d heard all the warnings of teenage girls’ mood swings, but witnessing the switch from gentle, happy teenage girl to instant brat was shocking.

“But,” I continued, and her eyes darted back to me. Her brattiness quelled just a bit. “It’s also true that we have this weird… I don’t know, easy friendship starting.”

The words were lacking, and I knew it. I just couldn’t do more in the moment. It would open me up too much. Give away too much.

I still didn’t know how much Olivia was on board with this relationship thing, or what it would mean for us. And hadn’t it been just this morning that I’d been frustrated with having to share my space?

“So, what does that mean?” Rosie prompted when I stayed silent a moment too long.

The longing in her voice pierced the last wall I’d built, the little bit of my heart that hadn’t been ripped out and trampled on years before.

“It means you’re my daughter. We’re spending time together. Getting to know each other. I’m here for you. And all you have to do is be a kid, and trust that whatever happens, all you have to do is be a kid. Your mom and I will take care of you. You don’t have to force labels or nicknames, or categorize what we are to each other.”

Rosie’s expression changed, confusion flittering across her pretty face as she sat back, absorbing my words. Olivia spun her mug on the table, peering at it as if it had all the answers to all the problems we faced.

I leaned back, allowing them both time to think. I looked around my kitchen, noting that towels I’d never seen before hung on the oven door. And a wooden plaque with the word Home stenciled in the center now sat in my kitchen window, next to a potted plant with dainty yellow flowers pointed toward the sun. In place of the old, worn coffee tin, there was a new container on the counter holding my spatulas and spoons.

All around my kitchen were little touches of them making my space nicer, homier.

They’d even cleaned up the mess I’d dumped at the front door when I got in.

“You guys went shopping for more than groceries this morning,” I said, that bubble of appreciation swelling in my chest again, making it hard to breathe.

Olivia sat straighter and seemed almost… embarrassed. “We wanted to do something nice as a thank-you for letting us stay here.”

I’d been to their house and had seen what they’d started over with—next to nothing. What they’d done for me, when they still had so much to furnish in their own space, humbled me.

“It’s nice. Thank you.”

Rosie shared a long look with her mom, sharing some secret. I wanted to know all their secrets.

Olivia dragged her gaze away and focused on me again. “You’re welcome.” Her voice had lost that casual ease and was tense again. “It’s not much, but we appreciate you looking out for us.”

“So, does this mean I can’t call you MacDaddy?” Rosie clarified.

“Yes,” Olivia and I said in unison.

Rosie rolled her eyes and pushed to stand. “Y’all are no fun. All right, I’ll go with Mac, but I reserve the right to call you old man, or maybe even old fart, every once in a while.”

I chuckled because she was stubborn if she was anything, and that trait came straight from me.

I cleared the brunch mess while the girls went to drag in more bags. When they turned to make a second trip for even more, I wondered how much damage they could do in such a short period of time.

Then I whistled for Buster and headed to the shop.

An hour or more passed before a rustle at the door drew my attention. Olivia stood in shadow at the open door, her curves highlighted in the perfect way to make my mouth instantly dry. I didn’t know what it was about her—maybe it was my memories making this attraction to her that much more—but whatever it was had my pulse kicking up.

She strolled across the shop floor, her gaze roaming around the space, taking it all in.

I dropped the tool I’d been holding and grabbed a rag. Wiping my hands, I turned to face her.

“Sorry for the interruption,” she began, crossing her arms, that instant barrier forming as if she needed that protective wall to hide behind. “Rosie is enthralled with her YouTube videos, and I thought I might have a moment to chat with you privately.”

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