Page 7 of Defending her Heart

I enter the code that Beth wrote on the note and the door clicks. Paisley shoves past me and runs up the stairs.

“Come on, Miss Wentworth.”

I set my bag down and follow her up the stairs, barely catching a glimpse of the open foyer as I scurry up the curved staircase. There are three doors to the left and four doors to the right where Paisley turns.

“This is my dollhouse,” she says as I step into her bedroom that’s bigger than our living room and kitchen put together. “And these are my Barbies.”

In typical Paisley fashion, she hands me one and takes four for herself. For the next hour, we play with her dolls until she hops up off the floor and asks for a snack.

I follow her, tempted to peek in the other doors, and head down the stairs to the kitchen. We pass through a living room that takes up the entire left side of the house. It’s massive and separated into two different living spaces with a sectional, twochairs, and a television screen that looks more like a movie screen in the back half of the space, closer to the kitchen. A more formal leather furniture set occupies the front area.

The kitchen is what dreams are made of. I’m a minimalist when it comes to food preparation. I can make a mean pot of spaghetti and heat up jarred sauce to perfection, but salads are where I excel. I’m a pro at finding anything and everything and adding it to a bed of lettuce.

“What would you like?”

“A snack.” Paisley opens the door to what I think is another room, but it’s a walk-in pantry stocked with more food than the corner market by my house.

“Wow. Okay.” She reaches for a bag of popcorn and a juice box. “What would you like for dinner tonight?”

“Can we have chicken fingers?”

“Sure.” I close the pantry door behind us and help her up to the barstool at the kitchen counter. Although, calling it a counter doesn’t do it justice. The center island is bigger than the king-size bed in Paisley’s room. “Where do you like to order them from?”

“We don’t order them, silly. We make them.” She bites her lower lip while she pokes the straw at the little hole on her juice box, but it keeps bending.

“Need some help?”

“Daddy usually helps me but lets me do it myself.”

“How does he do that?”

“He pokes the hole with a toothpick.”

“I can do that.” I hop off my stool and start opening drawers. There are dozens of them, and cabinets. It’ll take me all day to find them. “Do you know where your Daddy keeps them?”

As tempted as I am to snoop, I remind myself to wait until she goes to bed tonight. Paisley points to the one to the right of the sink, and I’m surprised at how clean and orderly the cabinetis. Granted, if you can afford a house like this, you can afford a full-time housekeeper.

I return with a toothpick, poke the hole, and watch Paisley slide her straw in with ease.

“I did it,” she says, her voice pitched high with genuine excitement.

“Nice job.”

“Can I watch a show while you make dinner?”

Beth didn’t leave me with a list of rules or anything about screen time. I’d rather not use the television as a babysitter.

“It’s not time for dinner yet, especially since you’re filling up on a snack. How about we play outside for a little bit?”

The backyard is expansive. The inground pool is covered and fenced, as is what looks to be a hot tub. To the right is a swingset, sandbox, and gorgeous outdoor furniture on a patio that features a firepit and an outdoor kitchen.

After she finishes her snack, we play outside until the sun sets. We head back inside and she immediately asks to watch a show. Either that’s what she’s accustomed to, being entertained by the television, or she rarely watches it and is using my inexperience as a reason to break the rules.

“How about you keep me company and tell me where you keep the chicken fingers?”

I assume the freezer, but I want to include her in the dinner preparations.

“Daddy lets me dip them in the flour.”

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