She can sense my stare, and her cheeks are becoming flush under her freckles.
“This aircraft is equipped with six emergency exits,” the flight attendant says over the PA system. “Two forward door exits, two window exits over the wings, and two door exits in the rear of the aircraft.”
“You’re doing great, sweetheart,” I whisper.
Stevie shakes her head, her lips pressed together.
“Flight attendants are now pointing out the exits closest to you,” the speaker system echoes throughout the airplane.
Stevie uses her index and middle fingers on each hand to point out the exits in the back of the plane, then does the same, motioning towards the window exits in the middle of the plane, where I sit. But when she points to the window exit on my side, she tucks her index finger in and points to the window with only her middle finger, clearly flipping me off.
I can’t hold back my laughter.
There’s a smug, satisfied smile on Stevie’s lips, as there should be. Her unwillingness to back down or give in to my charm, the way most women do, is officially intriguing, with equal parts frustrating.
“Zee!” is the first thing I hear as soon as I walk into the Maddison’s penthouse the next day, quickly followed by a sweet little three-year-old throwing herself at my legs, wanting me to pick her up.
“Ella Jo!” I lift the crazy-haired girl, holding her tight. “How’s my favorite girl?”
“Only girl,” she counters, pushing her little fingers into my cheeks.
Damn right she is.
“Present?”
“Ella!” Logan calls from down the hall in the nursery. “That’s not how we ask for things from your uncle.”
I give little EJ a pointed glance as I try to hold back my amused smile, needing to have Logan’s back on the whole parenting thing. But Ella could ask for absolutely anything from her other two uncles or me, and there’s no way in hell any of us are saying no.
She lets out a little huff to correct herself before her sweetest smile overtakes her lips, her dimples popping out like you wouldn’t believe. She cocks her head, tilting it and bringing her shoulder to her rosy cheek. “Present, please?” She bats her lashes.
A rumble of laughter shakes in my chest. I adjust her on my hip before digging my hand into my pocket.
When Ella was one, I started buying her a onesie-type thing from each city her dad and I played in, not that she knew or remembered that. But it was a fun way to make sure I got to come over and see my baby niece after each road trip. They’ve all been handed down to her little brother, MJ, now.
Last year when she was two, I switched to postcards. She liked all the bright, pretty pictures on the front, and she was easily entertained by a piece of paper.
This year, she’s three, and we are upgrading to magnets.
Pulling out the little magnet with the Colorado flag on it, I watch as Ella’s deep green eyes shine with excitement.
It’s a fucking magnet, but she looks like she was just given a winning lottery ticket.
“Wow!” she exclaims, and I can’t help but laugh again.
She might not have asked for her gift in the most polite way, but the way she’s treasuring this little rubber magnet in her tiny hands makes up for it.
She flips it over, examining it with a massive smile on her lips.
“It’s for the fridge,” I explain. “I’ll get you one from every city we play in.”
She excitedly nods her head and squirms in my grasp, wanting to get down. I set her on her feet as she scurries to the refrigerator. She sits on her knees, putting the magnet on the bottom of the fridge, where only she can reach, before tucking her tiny fists under her chin, admiring it.
“What do you say, baby?” Logan comes shuffling into the kitchen with newborn MJ in her arms.
“Thank you, Uncle Zee!” Ella practically yells from the floor in the kitchen.
“You’re welcome, girly.”
As Logan walks by, I pop a kiss on her cheek as she places her sleeping and swaddled son in my arms, not even asking if I want to hold him. She already knows the answer. Sometimes （most the time）， my reasoning for coming over has nothing to do with spending time with my two closest friends. I come over to see their kids.
“How are you feeling, Lo?” I ask one of my best friends, who is less than two weeks post-partum.
“I feel good.” She wears a bright smile as she takes a seat on the couch, tucking her legs underneath her.
I take the opposite side of the couch, careful not to wake MJ in my arms. This baby sleeps like a rock, though, so I doubt I could anyway. “You look good.”