He almost sank to his knees in gratitude. This whole thing would be easy. He knew mothers complained all the time about taking care of kids, but honestly? They only needed structure and discipline. Raising kids wasn’t brain surgery. Tristan began to relax. “Great. You get dressed, I’ll do your hair, and then we’ll drive to the recital. Sound good?”
“Yes!” She bounded upstairs, and he let out a breath. Flexed his fingers. He grabbed his cell and quickly texted Sydney that everything was okay, adding a smiley face. No need for her to worry. He had it under control.
“Tristan!”
He jumped. “Yeah?”
Her voice seemed tearful. “I got a run in my tights! I need help!”
“Oh, okay. Coming,” he called out. He eyed the staircase with pure trepidation but decided he had no choice. When he hit the top of the stairs, she showed him a small hole in her upper thigh. He frowned. “Won’t the lacy thing cover it?”
She shook her head. “No, the hole will end up running, and I’ll be onstage and look awful.”
“Do you have an extra pair?”
“Mama bought pink, but it’s way too much pink, and I just can’t wear it. I’ll look ridiculous!”
“Uh, okay. Maybe we can Krazy Glue it?”
“Mama said nail polish does it. She keeps her polish in the bathroom, under the sink in a big brown basket.”
“Got it.” He headed toward the bathroom and stopped short. Whoa. It was damn scary in there. Endless jars in various shapes cluttered the long counter, and the claw-footed tub held an array of body lotions and bath soaps, emitting a fragrance that was too familiar. Orange blossoms. He’d always wondered how she managed to cloak herself in the fragrance. Loose clothing was hung over the shower rod, and he immediately spotted a black lace thong that froze his brain for several precious seconds. Focus, he reminded himself. Nail polish.
He rummaged under the sink and yanked out a big basket, and a ton of other stuff tumbled out with it. Smothering a groan, he began stuffing junk back in, until his hand closed around a large object that had a familiar shape, encased in a plastic bag. He stared at it for a few moments before his brain slammed into high gear.
A vibrator.
His mouth hung open. The contraption featured several interesting buttons and was an impressive size. He had a searing image of Sydney soaking in the tub, thighs spread, head thrown back, vibrator humming as she stroked herself to climax. Heat exploded through him, and he clenched his fingers around the object. So, she kept it in the bathroom instead of the bedroom drawer. Interesting choice. He thought of all the fun ways they could engage in all sorts of fun play together and put this piece to good use.
“Tristan! Did you find it?”
He shoved the bag to the back of the cabinet and grabbed a bottle of red polish. “Got it.” He walked out and began twisting open the bottle.
“No!” He stopped, staring at her in confusion, and she began giggling. “You can’t use red nail polish. It needs to be clear, or I’ll have a red spot on my tights.”
“Right. Sorry.” He went back in, found the bottle of clear, and painted around the hole. One crisis down. “Surgery complete. Do you have your shoes?”
“Downstairs. Can you do my hair now? And spray it with the pink glitter? Mama said I could for the recital.”
“Yep. Can’t dance onstage without glitter.” She followed him into the bathroom, and he gazed at the riotous curls framing her face. Hmm. “Umm, does Mom use a special hair tie or something?”
“You can use these.” She gave him a bunch of silky pink ribbons and a contraption outfitted with fake diamonds and a bunch of claw teeth that snapped open. He wished he’d paid more attention to how a woman fixed her hair. He was only familiar with bobby pins and scrunchies.
But he’d handle it. It was just hair. He gathered all the loose strands into a fist, and twisted the bundle twice to keep it together. Then, using his other hand, he opened the claw thing and slid it on in the center of her head. He wrapped the pink ribbon twice around the bump and tied it with a bow. A grin split his lips. “Done. Want me to spray you now?”
Her green eyes—which looked much more like gold, and a lot like his—widened in horror. “It’s crooked. And there’s a big bump. It needs to be smooth. And if I do my pirouette, it won’t hold.” She demonstrated, bouncing once in the air, and he watched an array of curls merrily escape the knot and spring back around her face.
“I’ll try again. Don’t worry, we’ll get it.”
He tried again. And again. On the fifth attempt, they were both hopped up on nerves and beginning to panic. “Use the curling iron!” she suggested. “Mama says sometimes the strands need to be straightened to get it in a tight bun.”
His throat dried up, but he nodded. “Sure. Curling iron. Where is it?”
Becca pulled the weapon out of the closet. “Here, I’m not allowed to plug stuff in.”
He set it up, refusing to be intimidated by a tool that was hot pink. He was a builder, for God’s sake. He used power tools on a regular basis. He could handle a curling iron.
But hair was very different than houses. The silky, springy curls bounced away when he tried to grasp them between the two segments, and they slid off on a merry chase. He burned his finger twice, and his stomach was in knots about possibly burning Becca. Precious minutes ticked by.
“The pink ribbons don’t work. Does your mom have rubber bands anywhere?”
“All the hair stuff is here.” She pulled open the top middle drawer, and numerous items sprung forth. Hair bands, headbands, clips, barrettes, ribbons, and even a damn scrunchie. He grabbed a simple rubber band in pink and prayed hard he could do this. Finally he managed to get the strands in a tighter type of bun with the band, then he added the clip thing. The pink ribbons were casualties.
Becca announced it was acceptable.
His shoulders sagged in relief.
“Now the sparkle,” she instructed.
He grabbed the can, shook it madly, and began spraying. A cloud of sparkles burst from the hose and exploded around them, drenching them in shimmery pink crystals. Becca’s mouth fell open. “You weren’t supposed to shake it,” she whispered.
Tristan looked in the mirror. It was as if he’d been dipped in a vault of sparkles. They shone from his hair, reflected off his suit, and clung to his face. He looked like a deranged princess.
Their gazes met in the mirror with horror.
Then they both laughed.
Tristan had never laughed so hard in his life. The ridiculousness of the entire situation struck him full force, and Becca clung to him, bent over, as tears rolled down her face. A sense of pure joy filled him at her reaction and the open way she was able to view the situation.
Just like Sydney.
When they calmed down, he hurried her into the car, and he followed his GPS to the dance hall. Already the parking lot was a madhouse, with little girls in tutus gripping their mothers’ hands, carrying bags and large bouquets of flowers.
“Were we supposed to bring anything?” he asked. “Flowers or something?”
“No. Daddies bring flowers for their girls sometimes after they dance,” she said matter-of-factly. “Sometimes Mama picks me up sunflowers. I like them. They’re happy.”