daughter nodded, her eyes too serious for her still-baby face as she peered up at the wedding coordinator. She wrapped her index finger in the hem of her shirt, holding on the same way she had to the pink-and-white blanket Jamison remembered her carrying with her everywhere when she was a toddler. “She’s Miss Lindsay’s fairy godmother.”
Jamison blinked at Hannah’s unexpected announcement. “She’s... Oh, right.” That was how Lindsay had introduced the woman. The bride had sung Rory McClaren’s praises, complimenting her on finding the perfect music, the perfect flowers, the perfect menu—as if any of that attention to detail would lead to the perfect marriage.
Jamison knew better. He was cynical enough to wonder if Rory knew the same, but not cynical enough to believe it. Everything about her was too genuine, too hopeful for him to convince himself it was all for show. But even if the wedding coordinator believed what she was selling, that didn’t mean Jamison was buying.
“She’s not really a fairy godmother,” he told his daughter firmly.
“Of course not,” the dark-haired pixie said with a conspiring wink at the little girl, who gazed back with shy curiosity. “And you can call me Rory.”
Jamison’s jaw tightened. No doubt Rory thought the shared moment with Hannah was harmless, but the last thing he needed was for his daughter to put faith in fairy tales. Especially when the one thing Hannah wanted was the one thing no one—not even a fairy godmother, if such a thing existed—could give her.
Rory’s smile faltered when she glanced up into his face. Straightening, she rallied by getting down to business and glancing between Lindsay and Hannah. “So, are we ready to start trying on some gorgeous dresses?”
“I can’t wait!” Lindsay announced, clapping her hands in front of her as if trying to hold on to her excitement. “I’ve picked out some of the cutest dresses, and you have got to help me decide which one to choose.”
“That is what I’m here for. Anything you need, all you have to do is ask!”
And with statements like that, Jamison thought, was it any wonder Hannah thought the woman was some kind of fairy godmother? Even he half expected a magic wand to appear in the delicate hand she waved through the air.
Better to leave now before he—before Hannah—could get sucked any further into a belief in fairy tales and happily-ever-afters.
“About that. I think Hannah might be a little too young for all of this.”
Lindsay sank back onto her heels, her earlier excitement leaking out of her. He wasn’t a man to go back on his word, but he never should have agreed to have Hannah in the wedding in the first place. With his in-laws pointing out the need for a female influence in Hannah’s life, he’d thought—hell, Jamison didn’t know what he’d thought. But the whole idea was a mistake. “Trying on clothes isn’t her idea of fun.”
This time, though, the wedding coordinator’s smile didn’t dim in the least. If anything, an added spark came to her eyes. “The shopping gene hasn’t kicked in yet?”
“I’m hoping it skips a generation.”
Rory laughed as though he’d been joking, brightening her expression even more, like a spotlight showcasing a work of art. “You and all fathers everywhere.”
It was a small thing—Rory categorizing him as a typical dad—but some of the pressure eased in his chest. Maybe it wasn’t so obvious from the outside that he was at such a loss when it came to his own daughter. Best to quit while he was, if not ahead, then at least breaking even.
But before he could once again make his excuses, Rory turned to Hannah. “Well, maybe Miss Lindsay can go first. What do you think, Hannah? Are you ready to help?”
“Ms. McClaren—”
“Why does she need help?” It was Hannah who interrupted this time, coming out from behind him far enough to look from Rory to Lindsay. “She’s a grown-up, and big girls should be old enough to get dressed by themselves.”
Jamison closed his eyes and wished for a sinkhole to open up in the sidewalk and swallow him whole at his words coming out of Hannah’s mouth. Crap. Was that really how he sounded? So...condescending and demeaning?
“Hannah...” He’d only pulled out the big-girl card because Hannah was so filled with ideas of what she would do when she was older. Or at least she had been.
But if Rory was ready to take that “typical dad” title away from him and flag him with “worst father ever,” she didn’t let it show as she knelt down in front of his little girl. Close enough this time that he could have stroked her hair, as dark as Hannah’s was light, and he shoved his free hand into his pocket before insanity had him reaching out...
“You know, Hannah,” Rory was saying, her voice filled with that same touch of sharing a secret she’d conveyed earlier with that wink, “funny thing about being a big girl...sometimes we still need help.”
As she spoke, she reached up and slipped the bright pink band from Hannah’s hair. With a few quick swipes of her hands and without a comb or brush in sight, she had the little girl’s curls contained in a smooth, well-centered ponytail. “Not a lot of help. Just a little, just enough to make things right.”
To make things right... Jamison didn’t have a clue how to go about making things right in his daughter’s world. Especially not when he saw the open longing and amazement in Hannah’s face as she reached up to touch her now-perfect ponytail.
“So what do you think?” Rory asked as she straightened, her full skirt swirling around her legs. The roses on her dress might have been embroidered, but somehow Jamison still caught a sweet, fresh scent, as if she’d risen from a bed of wildflowers. “Do you want to help Lindsay with her dress for the wedding?”
Hannah hesitated, and Jamison braced himself for the “I don’t want to” response. Instead, she surprised him, nodding once and sliding a little farther out from behind him.
“And maybe, after Lindsay’s done, we could find a dress for you. Just to try on—you know, like playing dress-up. And then you can put your everyday clothes back on, because who wants to wear dresses all the time?”
Hannah reached out and brushed her tiny hand over Rory’s skirt. “You do.”
Rory tilted her head to the side as she laughed. “You caught me. I do like wearing dresses. But not all the time.”
Jamison might have only met the woman, but he already sensed how Rory’s clothes—elegant and old-fashioned—suited her. He had a hard time picturing her in anything else.
Now, if he could only stop himself from picturing her wearing nothing at all...
When Rory McClaren was five years old, she went through a princess phase. Her cousin Evie would likely say she never fully recovered from her belief in true love and happy endings and fascination with gorgeous ball gowns. Or the hidden longing to wear a tiara. On a Tuesday. Just for fun.
And while Rory had denied those longings throughout her adult life,
