Page 131 of The Overtime Kiss

Parker studies the exhibit info. “You ask for a layer of paper between the pizza and the box!”

And since this box isn’t greasy, they toss it in the recycling bin together, where a cartoonish voice coming from the bin says, “Recycling one glass bottle saves enough energy to power a lightbulb for four hours.”

As we go, I toss them more questions, and they work together to find the answers in the exhibits. Then I lead them into a dimly lit room with midnight blue walls and displaysall about ice and motion. Even if they don’t love hockey, I think they’ll get a kick out of this one.

“Next question. How fast do you think a hockey puck glides on ice?”

Parker scrunches his forehead. “Uh…fifty miles an hour?”

“A little more than that. And it all has to do with friction,” I say. “Do you think there’s a lot of friction on ice or not much?”

“Not much,” Luna guesses.

“Exactly. Because there’s so little friction, pucks can glide at speeds over a hundred miles per hour.”

“That’s really fast,” Parker says.

Luna’s jaw drops as she spins toward her brother. “We have to tell Dad later—that’s one of the coolest things I’ve ever heard!”

“Sabrina, can we look up more hockey facts?” Parker asks thoughtfully. “Because when Dad talks about it, it’s sooo boring. But when you do, it’s actually interesting.”

That makes me happier than it should. And for all the wrong reasons. I shouldn’t be pleased that they enjoy my approach more. But I’m still a little pissed at their dad—and mad at myself too—so I’ll take the win.

We move through the rest of the Ice and Cold Exhibit, and I point to a display about ice before asking, “So, why is ice slippery?”

Parker and Luna exchange a glance before Parker guesses: “Uh…because it’s wet?”

“Kind of! It’s because pressure from your foot or skate creates a thin layer of water, which reduces friction.”

Luna gasps. “Wait. Suddenly, my dad’s job is so much more interesting.”

I laugh. “Well, I’d hope you’re interested in ice—you’re a figure skater.”

She squares her shoulders, clearly taking that as acompliment. “I know,” she says, then shoots me a conspiratorial grin. “But what we do is way cooler than a bunch of guys whacking pucks.”

Parker nods. “She’s not wrong.”

I shouldn’t be pleased. I really shouldn’t. But I kind of am.

And I’m especially pleased because, once again, I am Super Nanny. Exactly who I was hired to be.

At home, Luna and Parker fly down the stairs toward my apartment.

“I want to hold her first!” Luna declares.

“I do!” Parker insists.

“She likes me better,” Luna retorts, reaching the door ahead of her brother.

“Not true,” Parker argues.

“You know what she loves most?” I counter, tapping the code into the keypad.

Both of them pause. “What?”

“Food,” I say with a grin. “How about we feed little Miss Drama?”

Right on cue, I lean toward the door, cupping my ear. Drama’s high-pitched wail filters through—a sound somewhere between a whistle and a demand for immediate attention.

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