Page 102 of The Problem with Perfect

She thrusts a photo in my direction, and as excited as Millie is, I can’t help the way my smile dims just slightly at the sight of it.

“The picture of you and mommy,” she says, bouncing on her toes and clapping her hands as I appraise her findings.

The aged picture I’m holding is of me and Toni, back when we first met here in the bar, almost ten years ago.

Before I bought the place.

Before she got pregnant with Millie.

Before she left us for the dreams she decided were more important than being a family.

It feels like a time capsule, looking at this thing, allowing myself a moment to remember the way we were together as my fingers touch the faded edges softly.

I clear my throat and try to keep a smile on my face as my daughter rambles on about needing the picture for some sort of family book they’re creating at school after they return from spring break.

“…thought I was going to have to draw a picture of mom, but now I have this picture and it’s going to be so much better!” she shrieks, her words tumbling one over the other in that way overly excited seven-year-olds do when they have something important to talk about.

“It’s going to besomuch better,” I reassure her, handing the photo back and watching as she examines it again, her small fingers holding it like a delicate treasure.

“Can I get a baggie from the kitchen to make sure it stays safe?” she asks, and I nod, watching after her for a long moment as she barrels through the swinging door and through the kitchen, her little voice shouting, “Hi, Marco!” to one of my kitchen staff before she disappears into the pantry on the right where we keep supplies like foil and napkins and, apparently, plastic baggies.

Though, how my kid knows that is beyond me.

I shake my head and turn around, preparing to letMcKenzieknow I won’t be calling her since I will most likely have a project to help my daughter with—a lie, but one that probably won’t hurt her feelings—only to freeze when I see she’s gone.

Glancing around, I wonder if maybe she went to use the bathroom or something, but then I spot two things that confirm she’s not coming back.

One is the damp ten-dollar bill under her half-empty drink, and two is the fact that the napkin with her name and number is nowhere to be seen.

I chuckle to myself then collect the cash and dump the drink before wiping down where the condensation left a pool of water. I guess that was a bullet dodged, even if there is a tiny wound to my ego at the fact she bounced without a word.

I’m not sure if it was the revelation that I’m a father that scared her off or Millie shouting about a picture of me and her mother that drove her away, but ultimately, it doesn’t matter.

There will be other nights and other women, hopefully ones who are much older thanMcKenzieand her gaggle of sisters from Kappa Mocha Frappa or whatever it was called.

* * *

“I just didn’t think it would be a big deal.”

I cross my arms, then think better of it and drop them to my sides, not wanting to betoointimidating when I speak to my daughter’s babysitter.

“I understand that, Kasey, but I’m clarifying with you now why itisa big deal. Millie is only seven. I don’t have a problem with you bringing her to see me at the bar when I’m working, but she shouldn’t be walking all the way down the street by herself.”

And, though I don’t add this part out loud, the fact that Kaseyisn’tworried about it makes me concerned about how much attention she’s giving Millie during the time the two of them are together.

Sandalwood is a safe little beach town, without question, but she’s still a child.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lock. It won’t happen again.”

I stare at Kasey for a long minute before I nod, deciding to accept her apology and take her at her word. I mean, I hate to admit it, but I don’t have a lot of options when it comes to making sure Millie is taken care of while I’m working. Sure, I’m the owner and Icouldset her up in the back—or hell, even in the front—if I wanted to while I’m working, but I promised myself before I even bought the place that a life of being raised in a bar wasn’t going to be what I exposed Millie to.

“Also, just a reminder, I’m taking this whole week off for Millie’s spring break, so I won’t need you to babysit next weekend.”

Kasey bobs her head. “Yeah, I remember.” Then she gives me kind of a sheepish look. “And I know it’s last minute, but I actually can’t babysit tomorrow night. I have a paper due Monday and I’m way behind.”

Inwardly, I bristle in irritation. She couldn’t have mentioned this earlier?

But I’ve dealt with babysitters cancelling late before, so I take it in stride. Because, really, it’s the only thing Icando.

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