Page 129 of Role Play
Dakota squeals with delight, the high-pitched sound ricocheting off the kitchen tiles as she abandons her careful watch over the cooling trays to help her dad drag the coffee tableaside. The legs scrape against the hardwood with a sound that would normally make me cringe, but tonight I find I don’t mind.
Within minutes, Forrest transforms the living room into a cozy haven. The princess tent serves as the centerpiece, but he extends the fort using sheets draped over chairs and the sofa, creating a sprawling canopy. Inside, he arranges pillows and blankets in a nest-like configuration, complete with Dakota’s favorite stuffed animals as sentinels.
The minute Dakota realizes Forrest forgot Mr. Flops, she’s barreling up the stairs to retrieve him.
“Impressive architectural skills,” I remark as he secures the last corner with a clothespin, the sheets billowing slightly in the warm cross-breeze from the electric fireplace.
“All those summers mending fences and building barns have prepared me for this moment,” he replies with a wink. “Though I have to say, princess sheets are a lot more forgiving than barn timber.”
My lids drop to half-mast, as I nibble my bottom lip playfully. “So, when you were barn-building in Wyoming…was your shirt usually on or off?”
He tries to hide his smile. “Depends on the season.”
“Let’s say summer…” I close my eyes. “I imagine you were extra tan, shirt off, cowboy hat on your head, maybe sweating a little here?” I skate my fingers across my chest, just beneath my collarbone. I end my sweat charades with a shiver of desire.
When I open my eyes fully, Forrest is staring at me, amused and bewildered. “I’m sorry, am I interrupting your wet dream over there?”
“No.” I scowl. “Unrelated—do you still have any of your old cowboy hats, or…”
He bursts out in a rumbly laugh. “Subtle.”
Dakota comes barreling back down the stairs, Mr. Flops in one hand, a Barbie doll in the other.
“How much longer do we have to wait?” she asks, eyeing the cookies with the intensity of a hawk tracking a field mouse.
I tap a cookie, the heat of it no longer biting. “I think we’re ready.”
I’m met by her squeals of delight. I half expect her to dive into the cookie sheet, inhaling them by the fistful, but instead, like a little lady, she uses the step stool to retrieve three plates.
“Thank you for this,” he says softly, his voice suddenly serious. “She’s never been this self-sufficient. It’s because she feels at home.”
I turn to face him, our bodies close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him, smell the faint scent of his cologne mingled with the winter cold still clinging to his clothes. “You’re more than welcome. And thankyou.”
“For what?”
“Making this place feel like home for me too,” I answer.
His eyes search mine, looking for something I’m not sure I’m ready to give voice to. “Sora?—”
Whatever he was about to say is cut off by Dakota’s insistence on us eating cookies while they’re warm. I’ve somewhat lost my appetite, probably somewhere in Forrest’s hazel eyes. I tend to lose a lot of things in there: my thoughts, any semblance of resistance. It’s all swept away in the vortex of the beautiful nuclear weapons he calls pupils.
I couldn’t feel more full of love and warmth at the moment, especially with the aroma of warm cookies hovering in a sweet cloud, filling every corner of the brownstone. The three of us crawl into the fort with a plate of warm cookies—including Dakota’s questionable gummy-worm creations—and a bowl of popcorn I’ve quickly microwaved, its buttery fragrance mingling with the cookies to create the perfect movie-night perfume.
“What movie should we watch?” Forrest asks, reaching for the remote, the plastic warm from sitting near the electricfireplace. Dakota’s sitting crisscross-applesauce, sandwiched by me and her dad, backs resting against the couch.
She eyes me, overly pensive for someone her age, then declares, “Sora should pick. She’s so nice and she made us cookies.”
“That’s very generous of you,” I tell her, touched by her consideration. This child, with her uncomplicated kindness and easy affection, has wormed her way into my heart with alarming speed.
“What’s your favorite?” she asks, her blue eyes wide and earnest in the fort’s dim light, reflecting the glow from the TV screen.
I consider for a moment, the weight of this small decision feeling strangely significant. “How aboutLilo & Stitch?”
“I don’t think I’ve seen that one,” Dakota admits, tilting her head curiously.
“Ma’am!” I declare with mock gravity. “You are missing out.”
“The one about the blue alien-dog?” Forrest comments, eyebrows raised. Clearly I’m dealing with a tough crowd tonight.
