Page 41 of Skate the Line

They’re both on the kitchen floor, sitting cross-legged. Ellie's back is to me, but I can tell she’s working furiously on something. Sunny sits beside her and watches her closely with her lips formed into a soft smile.

She’s alluring.

I bet she tastes like honey.

My throat bobs.

That was a wild thought.

I crack my neck, shake myself out of the spell Taylor Swift’s love song just put me under, and hit pause on the speaker.

Sunny snaps her head to me and jumps in front of Ellie.

I’m taken aback with surprise from her sudden protectiveness over my daughter.

It's only after a few seconds that Sunny’s defensive stance loosens, and she places her hand over her rising chest. “Rhodes.”

“Daddy!” Ellie zips past Sunny with a wet paintbrush in her hand and moves to hug my leg. At the last second, Sunny plucks the paintbrush out of her hand and holds it up high.

“That’s not washable paint,” she laughs.

I wouldn’t care if Ellie got paint on my clothing, but I don’t blame Sunny for assuming I would. After all, I’ve been nothing but callous since hiring her.

“Hi, Printsessa,” I mutter.

“Look what Sunny made!” Ellie tugs me farther into the kitchen.

It’s so tight I hardly fit.

Sunny squeezes past me and disappears. I glance at the mess on the floor and try to make sense of it.

“What…is it?” I ask my daughter, confused.

“Beads. Sunny is an artist! Did you know that? She’s letting me paint them!”

Oh. I did not know that.

“Beads? For...?” My sentence trails when Ellie’s cheeks puff up with air.

She rolls her eyes.

I swear to god, girls are born with that ability.

“To make friendship bracelets! Duh!”

Guess I should have just known that by her tone of voice.

“Alright, well go ahead and finish the last bead before we head home.”

Ellie drops my hand and plops back down. There’s a thick slab of clay off to the side where Sunny was sitting, various colors of paints, paintbrushes, and some household things that are probably being repurposed as tools for the clay.

I walk back the way I came—so a total of three strides—and end up near the front door.

Sunny is bent over, fiddling with the lock that I’ve already learned is broken. I can’t help but drop my attention to her tight jeans.

I look away as soon as I realize what I’m doing.

“It’s broken,” I say.

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