Page 128 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
Warrin nods. “Aggie and I work with a kink-friendly therapist. Happy to point this guy in her direction if he’s open to it.”
“Not everyone clicks with a little as fast as you did,” Jack murmurs. “It could be a long time before De Leon even has a chance to be a daddy.”
Logan and Warrin slant their eyes at their giggling, gooey littles.
“Don’t count on it with the Little Matchmaking Bureau in operation,” Logan says.
We all chuckle.
The conversation turns to the upcoming trip to Niagara Falls and I trade speaking glances with Logan, who nods reassuringly. Feeling much more settled than I did when we arrived—not only have I done my duty to the playgroup, but this collection of good, caring men who share my particular interests don’t just accept me, theywelcomeme—I wander over to check on Cynnie.
There are a number of misshapen, gray lumps on the littles’ table, but nothing the Clay Maker has deemed worthy of thedrying shelf, much less the kiln. Cynnie’s examining her lump with dismay. I take a packet of wet wipes, itself liberally smeared with clay, from the center of the table and start wiping off her hands.
“Oppa, I dizn’t make anything good.”
“Did you have fun?” I ask.
She nods enthusiastically. I wipe clay off her chin, cheek, the lobe of her ear. How did she get clay in her ear?
“That’s all that matters. Warrin’s made everyone a souvenir and we should check out the gift shop, too. See if there’s anything in there you’d like?”
That gets the attention of all the littles, who start to migrate out of the clay room, towards the front of the store where there are several displays of ready-made clay items. Before they can daub goop on every surface, they’re corralled by their daddies. It takes practically every wet wipe in the place before they’re clean enough to unleash on the gift shop.
Cynnie picks out a smiley-face pin and I get two mugs painted with cherry blossoms. Entertaining warm imaginings of Cynnie cuddled in a nest in front of the television, drinking hot chocolate out of one of the mugs, I take our selections to the register to pay.
Where the pink-haired Clay Maker had nothing but smiles and encouragement for the littles, palpable disgust rolls off the older man behind the register as Cynnie and I approach.
She shrinks against my side.
“Lo, can I get an assist?” I call over. Logan looks up from where Emily’s showing him a string of pink and yellow clay beads. As he’s extricating himself, I drop a kiss on Cynnie’s head. “Baby, go over with Emmy, okay?”
She nods and slides away from me, her head down, her whole body radiating mortification.
I shift my gaze back to the man who made my bumble feel that way. I put our selections on the counter next to the register and set my hand on top of them.
Logan moves up beside me. “Wind your neck in,” he growls at the man.
“This is afamilyplace,” the man sneers.
“You’re looking at my family,” I say. “Your website says you welcome potters of all ages. Unless you want me to report you for age discrimination and false advertising, and make sure your Google ranking plumets to one star, you will treat every member of my family with respect.”
Both Logan and the man look faintly shocked. Where did that cold, smooth threat even come from? Certainly not the pool of awkwardness I usually drown in.
Maybe it came from that new place of Daddyness inside me.
The man lowers his eyes and meekly rings up our purchases. I stand like a sentinel as the other littles bring up their selections. My presence ensures the man never once lifts his eyes higher than the top of his register.
The pink-haired Clay Maker comes out with our fired creations while Jack’s paying for a collection of “world’s best dad” mugs that Sammi’s picked out. The Clay Maker, at least, is all smiles as Warrin directs her distribution. The pieces have come out surprisingly well; the glazes fired to bright colors. There are a half-dozen, smiling, yellow and black-striped bees for my bumble. Even my hive looks pretty good, or so I think until Sammi peers over my shoulder as I take it from the Clay Maker.
“Mister Max, is that a poop emoji?”
The other littles break into peals of giggles while their daddies crack up. Even Logan laughs, although he tries to hide it behind his hand.
I give in. “Yes, Sammi, that’s exactly what it is.”
Cynnie slides her arms around me. “Oppa made my buzzies a hive. Izn’t it cute?”
That gets the littles cooing as I wrap up the bees and the hive in paper the Clay Maker hands me. Their daddies herd them out of the gift shop and toward the street while I turn back to the register to pay the balance on our “premium clay experience.” After an exchange of loaded glances, the older man disappears into the back of the store and the Clay Maker takes his place behind the register. She checks me out efficiently and I give her a tip on top, since she was great.
