Page 127 of Role Play
“A flip phone?” I parrot in surprise. “They still make those?”
Forrest fully laughs now. “Basically, he still thinks the world is flat and that the city is a disease. He wouldn’t get on a plane if his life depended on it. It’s why he’s never met Dakota.”
“Never?”
“I mean he’s seen pictures, and talked to her a couple times, but no, he’s never met her officially.”
Fully captivated by this new revelation, I abandon my cookie fillings and place both hands on my hips. “Forrest, that’s unbelievable. If Boone won’t get on a plane, why don’t you take Dakota out there to visit?”
“Hannah wouldn’t let me. She claims for safety reasons, but I think it’s because she would prefer Dakota not get attached to my side of the family. The only thing Hannah hates more than small towns is small-town people.”
A shadow crosses Forrest’s face, darkening his eyes to a stormy gray.
“So Boone doesn’t get to spend time with his only granddaughter? That’s awful,” I say, automatically reaching for his hand. His fingers lace through mine with practiced ease. His thumb traces small circles on my wrist, a gesture he does often, and suddenly I don’t think I can survive without it.
“You’d like him,” he says, his eyes distant with memories. “He’s rough around the edges, but genuine. He’d probably take one look at you and tell you that you’re too pretty to be holed up in the city. He’d try to make a country girl out of you yet.” He touches the tip of my nose, grinning ear to ear. “You’d look good as a cowgirl.”
“Is that your not-so-subtle way of saying I should visit the ranch someday?” I ask playfully, but simultaneously searching for something deeper.
His eyes lock with mine, filled with something that looks a lot like sudden inspiration. “You might like it there. All the open space. Stars you can actually see at night. Air that doesn’t smelllike exhaust and piss and too many people. Dakota would love it too—plenty of room to run around, animals to play with. You know what? We should go visit.”
The image of wide-open spaces under a vast sky is appealing in a way that surprises me. I’ve always been a city girl, more comfortable with concrete and taxis than horses and hay. “What about Hannah?”
Forrest releases a tiny exhale, his nostrils flaring. “Things are different now. I think it’s about time I start deciding what I think is and isn’t good for my daughter.”
The determination in his voice sends a thrill through me, despite myself. This is a man who knows what he wants and is prepared to fight for it.
“I’m in, Forrest. You just say when.”
He nods with a satisfied smile plastered all over his lips. But he doesn’t say another word.
“Koda, let’s add the chocolate chips now,” I say, perhaps too brightly, turning back to the counter. The mixture in the bowl is creamy and perfect, waiting for our custom additions.
Dakota gleefully abandons her sorting project and grabs a handful of chocolate chips, scattering several across the counter in her enthusiasm.
“Whoa there, easy, tiger.” Forrest laughs, moving to help her. He opens her hand toward him, unpicking the pieces off her sticky palm that hadn’t fallen off despite her flourishing attempt. “You’re supposed to put them in the bowl, not decorate the kitchen with them.”
“I’m being an artist,” she declares, her eyes narrowing in that way that makes her look so much like her father.
“You’re baking,” Forrest answers flatly.
“Out.” I point toward the living room, dismissing him. “Cookies are artistry. Let the creatives work in peace.”
Chuckling and licking his fingers, he retreats toward the stairs, leaving the kitchen so Dakota and I can further bond.
The rest of the baking process is a cheerful chaos of mixing, spilling, and tasting. The kitchen fills with warmth and the rich, comforting aroma of butter and sugar transforming into something greater than the sum of their parts. Dakota insists on adding rainbow sprinkles to her portion of the dough, along with the controversial gummy worms, her small hands diving enthusiastically into the mixing bowl despite my feeble attempts to maintain some semblance of hygiene.
“Not too much, sweetie. You’re going to get salmonella,” I warn when she steals a finger-scoop of raw dough.
“Sal-who?” Dakota asks, licking her fingers with obvious enjoyment.
“It’s a bug that makes your tummy hurt,” I explain, gently steering her toward the sink to wash her hands.
Dread fills her angelic little face. “There are bugs in the cookies?”
“Not that kind of bug.”
“Phew,” she says, “because I want to eat them all, Mommy.”
