Page 22 of Sunshine
“Traitor,” I grumble, tweaking my daughter’s nose. “I guess that means you want extra vegetables for dinner tonight?”
Izzy bounces to her feet again, and I catch her as she throws herself into my arms. “Yes!”
I tip her upside down as she shrieks with giggles, then swing her right way up. “You must be the only kid in the world wholikesveggies. It makes it hard for me to be cross, did you know that?”
Izzy squirms and laughs from her belly as I tickle her ribs. “Ye— Ye— Yes!”
Poppy watches on with horror. “Izzy!Vegetables? How could you?”
“They’re good the way Daddy makes them,” she says, a little breathless as I set her down. “I promise.”
Poppy screws up her nose and pokes out her tongue. “I’ll take your word for it.”
But she’s a terrible actress. Poppy’s loving this—whateverthisis. And so am I.
“How about I make those salmon burgers you like?” I say to Izzy. “The ones with the sweet potato.”
Izzy bounces on her toes. “Yes!”
I glance toward the kitchen and then check the clock on the wall. There’s a little time left before dinner, and I try to surreptitiously give myself a sniff. I’ve spent a full day in the kitchen and I’m still in my whites, and although I’d love to shower before I do anything else, I’m less thrilled about leaving Izzy unsupervised.
Apparently, my stealthy odor check isn’t stealthy enough.
“Yes. You smell.” Poppy shoves me out of the path of the television before she hits play, and the music starts blaring. “Take a shower while we write a list of a good nanny’s favorite things. Number one: whiskers on kittens.”
“Meow,” Izzy purrs, pretending to paw at the cat’s ears on her head.
I boop her on the nose as I say to Poppy, “Are you sure you don’t mind hanging out a little longer?”
“Nowhere else I’d rather be,” she confirms with a wink at Izzy.
My daughter tries to wink back—it’s a lopsided blink that she tries twice—and I pass a hand over my scruffy jaw to cover a grin.
“Okay. Thanks. I won’t be long.”
“Take your time.” Poppy drops on the sofa beside Izzy, and just like that, I’m forgotten.
I take the stairs two at a time, stripping off my clothes as I go, and they hit the hamper in my bedroom just before I hit the floor, cranking out fifty push-ups before I step into my ensuite bathroom. Random bursts of exercise are the only way I find time to stay fit these days. It’s not much, but it’s the only thing that stops me from feeling like I’ve let myself go completely.
I take a few extra minutes in the shower to wash my hair, and as I pass the mirror on my way to slip on my comfy old sweats, I stop and scan the golden-brown whiskers on my cheeks. As much as I insist that I don’t mind a scruffy look, it’s not particularly comfortable, so I pull out my shaving cream, hunt down a new razor, and shave for the first time in nearly two weeks. I run an actual comb through my hair, disliking the length as it falls across my forehead and curls around my neck, then brush my teeth and put on deodorant. I ignore my sweats and drag on a pair of soft jeans instead, as well as a navy t-shirt without stains. By the time I head downstairs, I feel like I’ve earned the right to be called human again.
It’s got nothing to do with wanting to look good for Poppy, but when she does a double take as I enter the living room again, I walk a little taller.
“Daddy!” Izzy jumps up and reaches for me, and the moment I scoop her up, she runs her warm palms over my cheeks. “You’re sopretty, and you smell good.”
Poppy makes a sound like she’s choking and a hot flush creeps up the back of my neck. “Thanks, Iz. You’re pretty too.”
I pluck the remote from Poppy’s hand and turn off the television, then make my way to the kitchen with Izzy hanging off me like an adorable, if inconvenient, sloth. “Dinnertime, Little Bee, and you know the rule.”
I set her on her feet, and she does a happy little skip before dragging out her step stool and positioning herself at the sink so she can wash her hands. “Ready, Chef!”
Poppy raises an eyebrow as she removes her cat headband and lifts her tote from where it’s hanging off the corner of a dining chair. She’s wearing those jeans again, the ones with the tear in the ass, and a baggy purple cardigan with a neck so deep my eyes keep falling to the smooth line of her collarbones and the milky softness of her full chest spilling out of the tight white tank underneath.
“So, this is a working kitchen, is it?” she asks.
“Yep.” Izzy nods proudly. “Daddy gives me the important jobs because he’s worked so hard at the restaurant all day.”
Poppy glances at me with an affectionate wrinkle across her nose, and I clear my throat and look away. It’s one thing to try to be a good dad when it’s just me and Izzy. It’s another thing to share our quirks with someone new. But this isPoppy. She’s seen me at my worst—the gangly teenage years, the summer I was grounded by my parents, the day Finn beat my ass when I challenged him to a wrestling match—so it’s a little weird to worry about impressing her now.
