“I’m not hungry,” she sniffed.
I reached for her shoulders and rolled her so she was lying on her back. It hurt me when I saw how puffy her eyes were. “Hey. What’s going on?”
“Nothing, Daddy. I’m just not hungry.”
These were the moments that I struggled with. I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing parenting a little girl all on my own most of the time, and it was a constant battle in my head if I was fucking this up. All I knew was that I woke up every day and loved her enough for two parents.
I loved this kid enough for a mother and a father.
Hell, I loved her enough for two sets of grandparents as well.
Because I was a one-man show when it came to raising Harper.
I worked hard to provide for her and give her everything she needed.
But this kind of shit was out of my wheelhouse.
My little girl looking like someone stole her sunshine.
I didn’t know how to handle that.
I had zero experience with little kids before my daughter was born. I grew up in and out of foster care, so I had very little experience with stability before my Harper came into the world.
I stroked her hair away from her face. “You might feel better if you eat something.”
“I don’t want to. I’m not hungry.”
I sighed, trying to figure out if I should force her to eat or give her time.
There was a knock on the back door, which could only be one person.
The menace from across the yard.
The past few days had been filled with snarky emails, and she continued to come by the jobsite daily to check on the progress and question everything.
Every. Single. Thing.
“I’ll be right back.” I moved through the house toward the back door and yanked it open.
“What did you burn down now?” I leaned against the doorframe as I took in her face. Her eyes were a little puffy, unless I was reading into it. The biggest sign that something was off was that she didn’t have a snarky comeback.
She wasn’t spewing venom at me.
She just stood there looking a little—broken.
“Can I just put these in your oven and then come back in twenty minutes to pick them up? I’m too tired to go to the diner, and I don’t have anything to microwave, and I need some comfort food.” She held up the bag of pizza rolls.
I’d ordered a new oven for the guesthouse, and it was expected to arrive in a week to ten days. And now I felt like a big dick that she couldn’t cook food for herself in the house where she was living.
“Yes, of course.” I took the bag from her hand and moved toward the oven, still warm from the garlic bread I’d just pulled out for dinner. She followed me inside, and I handed her a cookie sheet. She poured several pizza rolls onto the pan before handing it back to me.
Her eyes were definitely puffy.
I wouldn’t have guessed Violet Beaumont would ever let her guard down long enough to cry, but the signs were there.
She was quieter. Less combative.
Her eyes were puffy and red.
