Page 38 of Sweet Escape
Mama smacks his hand away with her spatula. “You better keep your grubby little hands off the food until the others get here, Griffin Hayes, or so help me —”
Her sentence trails off as we enter the room, her eyes landing on where I’m still touching Olivia. I’m sure we make a pretty picture, walking in here like a happy family, and something about that thought makes my chest tighten.
“Wilder Hayes, you could’ve warned me we’d be having company!” Mama chides, pointing her spatula at me this time. “Welcome to the chaos, Olivia. Sorry you’re not seeing us at our best this morning.”
Olivia beams. “Thanks for having me.”
“Hey, Little Sully.” Griffin waves.
“Come on in, then. The pancakes are almost done. Wilder, do you mind getting the high chair out of the closet for Emmy Lou?” Mama motions toward the dining room where we eat most of our family meals at a long wooden table with two chairs on either end and bench seats on the sides that have seen us through our best and worst days.
“What can I do to help?” Olivia asks, releasing my hand as she steps up to the kitchen island, sandwiching herself between my brothers.
“I could use some help taking the food to the table, if you wouldn’t mind.” Mama gestures to the platters loaded down with eggs, bacon, toast, and pastries strewn across the counter.
“Not at all.”
Olivia reaches for a plate of croissants and a pitcher of sweet tea. I place my hand on her lower back, and her breath hitches slightly.
“I’ll show you the way,” I murmur.
I don’t miss the sidelong glances from my brothers, who assess us with each interaction. We head through the archway into the dining room, and she places the platter on the plaid runner in the middle of the table.
I sit Emmy on the ground, but she instantly protests, flapping her hands to be picked up again. “Just a second, Angel. I need to get your high chair set up.”
Emmy’s bottom lip juts out, and tears start to build along her lashes.
Olivia doesn’t miss a beat, crouching down at her side. “Can I pick you up, sweetie?”
Emmy hesitates for a long moment, looking between Olivia and me. When I nod, Emmy walks into Olivia’s arms. It’s then that I notice how similar they are—both blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauties. Both have changed my life in irrevocable ways.
Olivia sinks onto one of the benches and perches Emmy on her lap, turning her to face the table. She removes the hair bands from Emmy’s ponytails and meticulously works to put them back together. When she’s done, Emmy has two perfectly symmetrical pigtails, and she didn’t even flinch.
“How the hell did you do that?” I ask, struck dumb by the entire scene.
She shrugs. “It’s a girl thing. I’ve had a lot of practice.”
Griffin and Jaxon enter the dining room with the rest of the food, placing it in a row down the center of the table. They’re locked in a heated debate about changing up the chicken feed with Mama trailing close behind.
“Breakfast is ready,” Mama says. “Wow, Emmy girl! Look at you. Did Miss Olivia fix your hair?”
Emmy nods, leaning back against Olivia’s chest with her sippy cup pressed to her lips. Emmy blinks slowly, her eyelids growing heavy. I reach out to pluck her from Olivia’s lap, but Emmy shakes her head, turning to the side so she can burrow deeper. “It’s fine. I don’t mind holding her.”
“You need to eat.” I give her a look that communicates exactlywhyshe needs to eat, and she rolls her eyes.
“I can eat one-handed.”
Before I can argue, Dad comes in and takes his seat at the head of the table as Mama makes the rounds, preparing each place setting.
“I see Emmy’s made herself right at home,” Mama says.
“Let’s eat!” Dad says, his commanding voice brooking no argument.
I take my spot beside Olivia, running a hand over Emmy’s back. Griffin and Jaxon sit across the table with Mama at the end closest to Dad.
“To good food and good women,” Dad says, raising a glass of sweet tea in salute, lingering on Mama with undying affection in his gaze. Once upon a time, I wanted what they had, and maybe I even had it—for a time.
We pass around the various platters of food, and I don’t miss that Olivia’s plate is half empty. She passes me the dish of scrambled eggs, and I scoop an extra helping onto her plate. When I do the same with the ham, she huffs out an exasperated breath, and when I attempt to add an extra croissant, she slaps my hand away.
