Page 236 of Papa's Bébé
“Noo,” she grumbled.
He ran his fingers through her hair as he whispered to her in French.
Darn it.
That wasn’t cool. He always managed to get her to do exactly what he wanted when he spoke in French.
It was his superpower.
49
“Time to stop playing and have some dinner, Little girl,” Matthieu told Maya.
After her nap, they’d spent time playing in the playroom and building up her Lego village again.
It turned out she was very particular about what went where. And there was a story behind every building and who lived in it.
It was pretty darn adorable.
They’d run out of time to head into town to get his packages but they could do that in the morning.
“Soon, Papa,” she murmured. “I just have to get Mrs. Winters’ garden looking right. She’s very particular about it. And she really hates when Mr. Summer’s dog poops in it. What they don’t realize is that the dog poop is going to bring them together and soon Mrs. Winters will be buying a second rocker for her front porch.”
“While that is very interesting, Little girl, it’s time for dinner. You can finish tomorrow.”
“I can’t finish tomorrow!” She stared up at him, clearly aghast.
“Why is that?”
“Because I have to finish now. I can’t stop.”
“You can stop.”
“Nope.”
“Excuse me,” he said in a dark, deep voice. “Did you just tell your Papa no?”
“Umm.” She peeked up at him and then away. “I don’t think so. That doesn’t sound like me. That sounds like someone else, someone naughty who is not me. Because I’m a good girl. Good girl Maya, not naughty girl Maya.”
“Then good girl Maya should be on her way to the dining table, not sitting here creating dog poop.”
“It’s hard to make good looking dog poop from Lego!” she cried.
“I’m going to count to three. I don’t need to tell you what happens after that, do I?” he said. “One. Two.”
She wisely jumped up before he said three. But there was a frown on her face and she was clearly upset with him. “Papa! I was busy!” She stomped her foot.
Right. That was enough of that.
“You’re going to be very busy after dinner. Busy writing lines.”
Her mouth dropped open. “That’s not nice.”
“Neither is arguing with your Papa and stomping your foot.”
She grumbled as he took her hand and led her to the dining table. He’d already put her food on a plate for her and he helped her into her chair, pushing it in.
“Eat your dinner,” he commanded as he sat across from her.
