Page 11 of The Parent Playbook
She smiles wide and shakes her head. “Scotty MacFarland, full of surprises.”
“And there’s more where that came from.” I immediately realize that came out all the wrong way.
“Oh?” Angel’s eyebrows tell me she’s expecting some off-color pickup line.
I tilt my head to the side. “I am also an excellent cook.”
She laughs. What a laugh. Her eyes crinkle and her shoulders relax as she tosses her head to the side.
“Pleasure to have met you, Miss Angel. And as for your whole ‘spiral staircases’ and ‘obnoxious hockey player’ bit from earlier?”
“Yeah?” Her eyes are curious, catching the light from the chandelier.
I lean in toward her. “You owe me one.”
I walk away, filled with a confidence I forgot I could have. I turn back to catch her watching me, looking unsure if I was serious or not. I think I’ll let her sit with that for a while longer.
As I one-hundred percent intend to see Angel Davis again.
But first to see the number one love of my life in the TV room.
“Daddy!” Lily jumps into my arms and then extricates herself, pointing a long finger toward her roommate. “That’s Andy. He’s an activist and he has a ranch. A ranch! For kids!”
“A ranch for kids, huh?” I look over at a gangly boy who has a confident and easy smile that I immediately recognize. “You don’t say.”
CHAPTER 5
ANGEL
The sun’s making its daily debut over Happy Horizons, slapping a layer of Instagram-worthy gold over everything, including Edgar who is munching happily in the front yard.
I’m sipping on what passes for coffee around here, eyeballing a pack of kids who’ve taken to horse grooming like they’re prepping for the Kentucky Derby. Another squadron is wrestling with autumn’s leftovers, trying to Frankenstein together wreaths for Maple Fest. It’s commotion sprinkled with a dash of nature—my kind of morning.
That’s until Troy crashes in like a storm cloud with legs, disrupting my caffeinated peace.
“Angel, for the love of sanity, what was that about last night?” He’s all wound up, a walking, talking caps lock button.
I take a leisurely sip, buying time. “Morning, Troy. Looks like you’ve already had your coffee. Is this a social call?”
He ignores my comment, pacing intensely enough to drill holes in my floor. “Scotty MacFarland, Angel. Seriously? The hockey legend and you were name-calling to his face?”
I try to swallow my guilt, lighten Troy up with a joke, whichis my usual M.O. “You mean the not-quite coat check guy with a surprising amount of sass.”
“Coat check guy? Angelica Davis, Scotty MacFarland is a big deal in the hockey world. Or hewas, until he dropped off the radar. But he’s going to have a comeback. Zach and I both know it, and that’s why he’s here. He gave up the spotlight a few years ago. All a bit mysterious, but the man has mad skills. If you’re not going to get him a fruit basket to apologize, then the least you can do is be nice to him.” He lowers his chin and gives me a look that takes me back to my own elementary school days.
Being nice isn’t always my default setting, especially when my initial impression involved him letting me believe he was someone else.
But as Troy makes his dramatic exit, I concede that I might have been the one to make the mistake.
Time to distract myself. Groups of kids are now parading their half-groomed horses around like they’re showing off at a royal pageant, and the wreath-making table looks like a Pinterest page exploded. It’s endearing, in a catastrophic sort of way.
“Okay, Universe,” I mutter to the chaos, “I’ll give your hockey hero a chance. But if he so much as hints at wanting a statue of himself in this town, I’m officially declaring open season on every puck pusher you send my way.”
And with that, I refill my mug, bracing for whatever this “being nice” thing is going to throw at me. It better not involve actual fruit baskets, though. I draw the line at perishable peace offerings.
The barn’s bustling with more life than a reality TV reunion special as I tuck into my daily grind with a pitchfork in hand. “Hey, Gillian!” I shout to our most committed volunteer who is milking cows like she’s done it her whole life.
“Morning, Angelica. I’m not sure you noticed, but there’s water leaking in the shed again.”
