I snorted and looked down at our other daughter, Mila.
She was an exact replica of Conleigh in every way, while Sasha was mine.
I wondered idly what the third one that we were having would look like, and I couldn’t decide which kiddo was cuter.
“Oh,” Conleigh whispered. “Get a picture!”
I handed Mila over just as the music started, then pulled my phone out and opened up the camera.
Mila started to cry again, and I looked over just in time to see Conleigh go green in the face just as she was about to gain her seat.
The handoff happened fast, and I found myself with an armful of hiccupping—but no longer crying since she had her daddy—baby in my arms, and Conleigh running out of the auditorium with her hands covering her mouth.
So, I might have knocked her up again.
I kind of liked her that way, though.
All of our children were going to be very close in age, and there was something to say about Conleigh, barefoot and pregnant, cooking me breakfast that I just fucking loved.
The music got louder as the lights on the stage got brighter, and that was when I saw my girl.
Sasha, my little tiny ballerina, was on the stage, and she was not happy.
Her teacher was trying to get her to perform, yet whenever the teacher would move on to the next step she’d look away.
My girl was exactly like her mama. There was no performance gene in her entire little body.
Each time the teacher would move, she’d turn her little face the other way, the same glaring pout on her cute mug that hadn’t shifted since I’d gotten there.
Knowing that Sasha would be sad if she didn’t perform her routine like we’d practiced so many times at home, I stood up and turned to the man at my side.
“Take her.”
I tried to hand the baby off to Bayou, but the moment that I even acted like I was going to let go of her, Mila started to scream.
Sighing, I did what any daddy in that situation would do.
I took her with me to the front and waved at Sasha when her pouting face found me.
“Dance!” I whisper-yelled at her.
Sasha shook her head vehemently.
That’s when I knew what I would have to do next.
I hopped up on stage—I mean, it was only family and friends there anyway, what would it hurt? —and helped my daughter do her dance.
Only, what I didn’t realize, was that the press had followed me in. Oh, and of course, they’d gotten the entire thing on tape.
My daughter and I were an international dancing phenomenon by the next morning, and we hadn’t even realized that we were performing for the world.
My daughter could care less.
I only prayed that Conleigh wouldn’t disembowel me when she found out.
She didn’t, but only because I’d made a damn fool of myself in the process.
***
Later that night, after our children were in bed, I found my wayward woman on the back patio, swaying on the porch swing.
“What are you doing?” I asked, looking over Conleigh’s shoulder.
“Looking at patio furniture on Wayfair,” she answered, looking back at me. “Why?”
I grinned. “You can’t shop for furniture off the internet. What if you get it here, and it sucks? What if it’s so uncomfortable that you refuse to sit on it?”
She frowned. “That’s…ludicrous. All couches are the same.”
My brows rose. “Um, no they’re not.”
She lifted her nose up at me. “I bought that one online.”
She pointed to the piece of shit that looked like my dog—and I didn’t even have a dog—took a shit on it. It was that outlandish.
“Did you know it was going to be that particular shade of brown?” I questioned.
She pursed her lips. “No. But…since I was new here, and I didn’t know anyone, I got the one I wanted because they had free delivery and setup. I thought that it was a normal brown.”
I chuckled. “That wouldn’t have happened if you’d have gone to an actual store. And, just sayin’, most stores have free delivery, too.”
If you asked for it, anyway. They weren’t going to advertise that it was free if you didn’t ask.
“Interesting.” She paused. “But I didn’t know of any stores in the area that sold patio furniture besides Lowe’s, and I don’t want to buy cheap shit that’s going to take fifteen years for me to put together and will most likely fall apart by the end of summer. I want stuff that’s going to last. Stuff that’ll still be good next summer, and the summer after that, and the summer after that.”
I lifted a strand of her hair and absently started to play with it.
She sighed and leaned her head back, her eyes closing as she groaned. “I love my hair being played with.”
I filed that little tidbit of information into my memory bank and started to mess around by braiding a few strands. “You could learn how to French braid, and then do my hair for me every morning. I hate ponytails, they make my head hurt by the end of the day.”