Page 7 of Falling for the Forward

I smile brightly. “Well, she tried to do something nice. And--” I fall silent when my gaze lands on Charlotte.

It looks like someone cut her beautiful chestnut hair with a dull knife. Her bangs are just a short row of spikes atop her forehead and the back is jagged. I turn to Carter, whose expression is neutral.

“Like I said, shit show. She cut her own hair yesterday.”

“Where were you?” The accusatory question flies from my mouth.

He lowers his brows and grinds out, “I can’t be in three places at once. I was coloring with Hallie.”

I walk over to Charlotte and tuck her hair behind one ear, wanting to wrap her in a hug. A drastic haircut is a universal female cry for help, and poor Charlotte has to be hurting.

“Well, this is a look,” I say, smoothing a hand over the top of her head.

She shrugs. “I like it.”

I cup her cheeks in my hands. “Do you really? Because I can take you to a salon today to have this fixed.”

Her eyes widen hopefully. “You can?”

“If your uncle is okay with you missing school today.”

“That’s not fair,” Olivia gripes as she walks into the kitchen. “I have to go to school because I didn’t chop off my own hair?”

Ignoring her jab, Charlotte and I both look at Carter, who shrugs. “I don’t care.” He gives Olivia a sharp look. “I’m goingto finish my shower now. No more cooking. You guys can have cereal for breakfast.”

“I’ll make breakfast for them. Do you guys want French toast?”

It’s one of the few things they all agree on every time I offer it.

Carter stalks back toward the stairway, and I can’t resist a quick glance at his broad back. Which isn’t just broad but also muscular. And maybe he’s notstalking, but it sure seems that way because of his size and his mood.

I crack the kitchen windows to let in some fresh air and start gathering the ingredients for French toast. I always follow the recipe I learned from my mom, mixing up eggs, milk, flour, sugar, cinnamon and vanilla. Just the smell of the ingredients reminds me of my childhood.

Olivia is packing herself a lunch to take to school and Charlotte is organizing a folder of papers when Hallie blurts out, “I saw Uncle Carter’sbutt.”

I turn to her, amused. She’s covering her mouth with her hand and giggling.

“Gross, Hallie,” Charlotte mutters.

Hallie continues in a loud whisper, undeterred. “There’s hair on his butt.”

“Ew.” Olivia glares at her younger sister.

“Suki, do all boys have hair on their butts?” Hallie asks me.

I never thought I’d be discussingthatwith a six-year-old. “Some do. We’re all made differently.”

“Do girls have hair on their butts?”

“Hallie.” Olivia gives her an exasperated glare. “Enough.”

I set the first piece of dipped bread into a hot pan. “It’s okay to be curious. Most women don’t have hair on their butts, no.”

“Do you?”

I pretend to peek in the back of my black leggings. “Nope.”

Hallie is so sweet. It hurts my heart that she lost her mom so young. Of the three girls, Hallie is the one I can tell craves hugs and kisses the most, so I make sure to give her lots of hugs and I kiss the top of her head every time I drop her off at school and leave the house for the day.

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