Page 88 of Sunshine
“Mm,” she moans with her eyes closed and her first mouthful of syrupy pancakes packed inside her cheeks. “This is so yummy. I’m going to eat five of them.”
“Itlooksyummy.” Poppy stabs a fork into the plate of fruit and slides a slice of melon between her lips. “Mm. I think I’ll need ten.”
But when she moves to take the stool next to Izzy, I grab her hand and pull her toward me, twirling her into the middle of the kitchen and turning up the volume on the radio as she spins under my arm.
Poppy completes a swirl beneath my raised arm and laughs self-consciously as I set a hand on the small of her back and pull her against me. “What are you—”
“I’m dancing,” I tell her in a firm voice. “With you.”
She looks up at me through long, thick lashes, fighting a smile, then dips her gaze demurely, which seems so unlike her…until I catch her shooting a sneaky wink at Izzy, who replies with her lopsided double blink.
The music isn’t too slow nor too fast, a classic from the seventies, and I sway us from side to side, spinning Poppy again,dipping her like my dad used to dip my mom. From the counter, Izzy giggles, clapping her hands at what she decides is the best darn dance move she’s ever seen.
“Spin her again, Daddy!” she shouts.
“Like this?” I twirl fast enough that Poppy stumbles to keep up, clutching my shoulder and gripping my hand in hers, but she’s laughing. And so is Izzy. So am I.
Izzy jumps down from her stool and crashes between us, demanding to be spun like Poppy, so I switch partners, twirling Izzy under one arm as Poppy sashays her hips around the room, stopping to roll up a pancake and dip it in syrup, holding it up to my mouth so I can take a bite while I dance with my daughter.
The next song is an old favorite, so we eat on our feet, switching partners so Poppy can dance with Izzy, then Izzy can dance with me. I get my hands on Poppy again only for Izzy to squeeze her way between us, and somehow, we’re bopping along as a trio with Izzy on my hip, Poppy on my other arm, the girls holding hands.
I can’t remember the last time I saw Izzy this happy. I can’t remember the last time I felt this free.
And then the song changes.
It’s a slow one this time. Old and gritty playing through Mom’s ancient speakers, and I ease the rhythm of our feet. My eyes meet Poppy’s over the top of Izzy’s dark head, and we exchange small, knowing smiles.
She feels it too.
“This is boring,” Izzy declares as she wriggles out of my arms and onto the floor. “I’m going back to my pancakes.”
“Good idea, Iz,” I murmur, reaching out for Poppy’s hand before she can escape too.
I gently draw her close and press her against me—chest and hips and thighs—and after a slight hesitation, Poppy rests her head against my chest. We sway there in the middle of thekitchen, side to side, her head tucked under my chin so she can’t get away, her arm a vise around my waist like she’s scared to let go. I breathe in the cherry fragrance of her hair beneath my nose, feel the rapid beat of her heart against my chest, and watch my little girl on the other side of the room, more invested in feeding her bunny a forkful of syrupy strawberries than what’s going on with her father and her nanny.
And it’s all the confirmation I need. Poppy fits. She belongs. We love her. I’m in love with her.
“Dylan?” Poppy whispers as our steps slow to almost nothing.
“Mm?”
She lifts her head from my chest and gazes up at me, brow furrowed. “Maybe we should—”
“Kiss!” Izzy shouts.
Poppy takes a breath and fear lights in her eyes, but the idea does the opposite for me. I want to kiss her. I don’t want to hide the fact that a kiss feels exactly right in this moment.
Poppy blinks up at me, her fingertips pressing into the muscle at my waist. My gaze falls to her lips, upturned and parted. Waiting. Perfect.
“Dylan?” she whispers.
“Kiss!” Izzy demands again. “You’re dancing like a princess and Daddy is your prince, and they always kiss after they dance. So, go on. Kiss!”
I slip a hand around her neck, sift my fingers into her hair, and brush my lips against hers. Softly. Tenderly. Like a fairytale.
Poppy’s sweet breath trembles against my mouth, her eyes float closed, and a single tear leaks down her cheek. I tighten my grip on her, knowing she’s scared and wants to run.
But then she opens her eyes, and my throat catches at what I see in them. An invitation into her world—and fear I might not accept it.
