When I walked through the door at half past eight, I was met by a pair of little arms around one leg. As little Hannah squeezed my calf tightly, I laughed, struggling to maintain my balance before closing the door.
"Hey, you." I smiled down at my daughter, ruffling her messy dark hair as I set a couple bags of groceries on the floor. I'd been gone since sunrise. Work, interviews, campaign meetings, and a trip to the store had occupied my day to full capacity.
I'd been in charge of just about everything lately because my wife's morning sickness had progressed to all-day sickness.
"Where's your mom?" I asked Hannah, picking her up so she was eye-level.
"Upstairs."
"Did you wear her out?"
My four-year-old nodded proudly. "I beat her at scrabble. And chess."
"That's my girl." Smirking, I crossed the glossed floor of our lobby and deposited two grocery bags on the expansive kitchen counter, Hannah still in my arms.
After Avery and I had gotten married, we'd settled for a modest home two miles scarce of Hawthorne House. While it was far to big for the three — soon to be four — of us, it was still nothing in comparison to the mansion.
That's why Avery liked it, though.
It reminded her, I supposed, that we were really just ordinary people with extraordinary lives.
As I walked, Hannah rubbed her little finger over the stubble on my jaw, crinkling her nose.
Neither of my girls liked the facial hair.
Other than sharing her distaste of a beard, though, Hannah wasn't much like her mother. The hair, eyes, personality, and mischievous grin were all curtesy of me. The only thing she seemed to have inherited from Avery's side of the family was her late grandmother's name.
She was incredibly clever for her age, too — but I took credit for that.
Hannah continued frowning as I reached the top of the stairs, sensing I was about to put her to bed. Her dark brows clenched as she pouted up at me.
"It's past your bedtime," I reminded her.
"Why don't you have a bedtime?" she retorted, ever sassy and inquisitive.
I laughed, tickling her chin. "Because daddy's busy."
"With what?"
"Nothing you need to worry about."
After bribing Hannah with a bedtime story about one of Uncle Xander's infamous pranks, I crouched by the edge of Hannah's bed and stroked her hair, murmuring my hopes for her to have good dreams.
Rather than saying goodnight, Hannah looked up at me with big green eyes. "Is mommy okay?"
I stroked her cheek. "Yes. But I might be the one tucking you in for the next little while."
"Why can't she?"
Smirking, I leaned down to eye level. I knew my daughter wouldn't understand pregnancy, but she deserved to know why her mother wasn't here. "You're going to have a little brother," I reminded her.
"And?"
I laughed.
So much sass.
"And," I continued, "he's in mommy's tummy. Makes her sick sometimes."
Hannah giggled as if it was a joke — so I let it go.
There was no use in explaining anything to a four-year old girl. Instead, I whispered, "Goodnight, Trouble," and kissed her forehead.
