Page 43 of Enemy Ex's Secret Baby

I watch as Stella goes back to her coloring. “Well, you take after her, then. Your mom is one of the spunkiest people I know.”

Stella suddenly drops a crayon. “Are you and mommy friends now?”

My eyebrows jump. “Now?”

“Yeah, because you want to get rid of the play lot and Mommy doesn’t want you to.”

Open communication. Makes sense for Gillian. When I was a kid, my parents talked about everything serious behind closed doors. Now, here we are, just talking about our issues in the open.

“And I don’t want you to, either!” Stella warns, wagging a crayon at me.

“Duly noted,” I say. “I’ll tell my dad.” I’m not sure the words of a six-year-old would make him change his mind any, but hey, couldn’t hurt to try.

“Your dad?!”

I half-laugh. “My dad and I work together.”

“Wow. That’s cool.”

Not as cool as you might think, kiddo. “It’s hard sometimes. Do you and your mom ever argue?”

“Not argue. We disagree. That’s what Mommy calls it.”

“Hm. Well, my dad and I disagree. A lot.”

Stella laughs and sinks down into her chair, looking off for a moment. “I guess I just think it’s cool you have a dad.”

Shit. Didn’t even think about that… “You have a pretty cool Grandpa.”

“Yeah, but Grandpa is Mommy’s dad. Not my dad.”

“No. I guess you’re right…”

Stella goes back to coloring. I’m not sure what to say next. I look around the shop at the waning line of cyclists and then back to Lola at the counter. Though she’s still fielding orders, she takes a moment to look at me and give me an encouraging thumbs up.

I glance back at Stella. “So, what do you need me to do here?”

“See all the leaves?” she asks, gesturing to the jungle scene on her paper.

“Yeah?”

Stella reaches into her crayon box and pulls out the nub of what was once a long green crayon. “They’re your job.”

I take the crayon. “You got it, boss.”

15

GILLIAN

“Hate it. Too floofy.” Harley shimmies back and forth in the mirror, watching the dress slosh around. “It’s a courthouse wedding, not Bridgerton.”

The bridal consultant, a dark-haired woman with rosy cheeks and big black rimmed glasses grimaces. “Got it.”

I laugh to myself. That’s just Harley. Brutally honest. I’ve known her since she was born and I know not to take it personally. But not everyone can recognize that right off the bat.

“I think you look beautiful,” Dana coos, circling Harley on the pedestal. “I mean, you look like a princess.”

“Barf,” Harley says.

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