He stepped forward, close enough that the distance was polite, and yet, he could see the darker blue rimming the pale blue of her irises. “I want you to be comfortable here. I don’t expect Rosie to not play and enjoy herself. Truly, it’s fine.”
She continued to stare for a moment, thoughts moving behind her eyes, but he wasn’t sure what conclusion she came to. While it was true he liked his life to be orderly, he didn’t want to be unyielding. She finally smiled, and he felt a weight lift off his chest as though he’d been waiting for her response.
“And even though I told you that you shouldn’t cook for me, I smell something delicious coming from the kitchen.”
“It’s the least I can do. Plus, I love to cook, and I haven’t ever been in a kitchen that’s as beautiful and well-equipped as yours. I used to do a lot of baking in my little kitchen and would even sell bakery items at a local coffee shop. But I never had a space like this to cook in.”
“I’m impressed,” he said. “While I don’t want you to feel indebted, if you truly enjoy cooking, then please, make use of my kitchen.”
She smiled, and it struck him how often she did despite her situation. He’d spent less than twenty-four hours in her presence and already found that he craved her gentle smile.
She glanced back into the living room. “Rosie, start picking up. I'm going to have lunch ready soon.”
Rosie’s head popped up. “I want to help.”
“You can come into the kitchen and butter the bread but only when your crayons and coloring books are put away and you’ve straightened the dollhouse.”
He watched as Rosie’s face fell, her shoulders slumping as though her mother had just placed the weight of the world on them. “I’ll give her a little help and then bring her into the kitchen.” Amy opened her mouth as though to protest, and he jumped in. “I won’t do it for her, but I’m pretty adept at helping my nephews and nieces.”
Another smile greeted him before she turned and went back into the kitchen. He walked over and looked down as Rosie’s large, blue eyes stared up at him. Her chin quivered ever so slightly, and he smiled. “Would you like a little help? If we work together, we can get into the kitchen quicker.”
Her eyes held suspicion, and he held his breath, waiting for her decision. She nodded shyly and picked up a bright pink mesh bag. Unzipping it, she gently placed her crayons in carefully.
Unlike his siblings’ kids, she was so reserved, her gaze continually moving to him before she ducked her head, her focus on the crayon cleanup. He squatted next to the coffee table and her eyes widened. Picking up a crayon, he handed it to her. “Here’s the blue one.”
Her brows lifted as she moved her gaze between his face and the crayon. Slowly, she shook her head. “No, it’s yellow,” she whispered.
“Oh,” he said, speaking as softly as she, and picked up another. “What color is this?”
She sucked in her lips, pulling her chin in. “Orange.”
It only took a moment for them to collect the crayons. She’d been so shy around him at first but now seemed to be willing to at least speak. Once the crayons and coloring books were stacked neatly, he watched as she carefully placed the tiny furniture and dolls into the small dollhouse, closed the two sides together, and snapped the latch. Twisting her head, she glanced between him and the kitchen as though he might renege on his allowing her to help in the kitchen.
Standing, he held out his hand. “Ready to cook?” She stared at his hand for a long moment before nodding. “Let’s go see what we can help your mom with. I’m hungry.” She didn’t take his hand but walked beside him into the kitchen, Bubbie in her arms.
Amy looked up from the stove where she was stirring a pot of spiced tomato sauce and watching over a pot of boiling pasta. Her gaze dropped to Rosie. “Hey, sweetie. Did you and Mr. Liam get the toys cleaned up?”
Rosie nodded, skipping to her mother’s side. “Can I butter the bread?”
“Did you thank him for his help?”
Rosie’s eyes cut up to him as she moved closer to her mother’s legs. Shaking her head, she tightened her grip on Bubbie.
“Well, say, ‘Thank you,’ and then you can butter the bread.”
Her eyes now cut over to the bread on the counter, the tub of butter next to it. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“You’re welcome, Miss Rosie.”
Her smile widened and a little giggle slipped out. Looking up at Amy, she said, “He called me Miss Rosie.”
“He must think you’re a very special little girl.” Rosie giggled again and then she climbed up onto the stool, took the butter knife, and began slathering butter on the bread slices. Her movements were uncoordinated, some pieces with big gobs and others where the butter was smeared thin.
Amy looked over and winked. “That looks good, sweetie.”
Rosie smiled, and Liam agreed, “It sure does.” Rosie jerked her head around as though in surprise, her smile still in place. It was strange how he wanted the shy little girl’s approval, taking her smile as proof that she was no longer afraid of him.
Soon, they sat down to homemade spaghetti with toasted garlic buttered bread. The food was delicious, and when Amy presented dessert of feather-light sugar cookies, his mouth watered. “I keep wanting to say that you shouldn’t be feeding me, but this is too good to deny myself the treat.”
After eating, Rosie helped them both clean the kitchen, her shy smiles growing more plentiful. Settling back in the living room, they turned on the weather channel and watched the news reports of the storm as the winds increased outside. Now, despite the hurricane shutters, the sound of the screaming wind could be heard. Rosie looked over occasionally, her gaze seeking her mom, gaining reassurances that they were fine. It didn’t take long for her to look over at him, nodding when he told her that his house was safe. “It’s like the brick house in the Three Little Pigs. The huffing and puffing won’t blow it down.” That elicited another smile.
While Amy took her upstairs for a nap, he moved into his office, making another round of calls. The jail was secure. The emergency calls that had come in had been handled, resulting in two rescue calls for possible heart attacks, both transported successfully to the hospital. There were already power outages reported in the Manteague area, but Wyatt had those residents at the emergency center in the local elementary school that was closest. He figured it was only a matter of time before more power was lost all over the Shore. When he checked in with Colt, Mitch, Hannah, and Dylan, they reported much of the same: the residents had heeded the warnings, the roads were clear, and the emergency response teams were responding to the few incidents that had occurred. So far, there were no residents without housing, but multiple trees were down, roads blocked, and older outbuildings were demolished.
He leaned back in his chair, blowing out a long breath as his mind was filled with what would need to be done when the storm passed. While he’d told Amy that the whole county’s hurricane response wasn’t resting just on his shoulders, being the Sheriff carried a heavy burden. Roads would need to be cleared so that his deputies could check on all residents and the rescue squads could get to anyone injured. The elderly that lived alone in the county were on a call list and would need to be contacted or visited. He knew he could count on the numerous churches in the area to provide manpower and assistance, but those efforts would have to be coordinated. He scrubbed his hand over his face, fatigue pulling at him as the winds howled outside.