Chapter 4 Boss of Daddy

I thumbed on a soft Latin playlist, one hand already reaching for the apron hanging beside the fridge. Hazel shot past me, leaving a trail of sand across the wooden floor like crumbs from some oversized cookie.

“Hazel,” I snapped. “Your feet. Look at the floor. What is that?”

She stopped, glanced back at her own footprints, then looked at me with an innocence so suspicious it deserved its own warning label. “Uhm… decorations?”

“Beach decorations in the living room?” I arched a brow.

Kayla walked by carrying a towel, snagging Hazel halfway. “Come here, beach goblin. Feet first.”

She hoisted Hazel like a mini sack of flour onto the small bar sink near the door and started rinsing off her sand–coated feet and calves.

Hazel squawked and giggled, her short hair and heavy bangs twitching as cold droplets splashed her skin. “Kaylaaa, it’s cold!”

“Still warmer than the Pacific,” Kayla said breezily, twisting the faucet. “Stop wiggling, you’re like an eel.”

I was already at the stove, pouring oil into a big pot. The sharp sssshh when it hit the garlic and onions loosened my shoulders. That sound was a cheap, reliable sedative.

“What’s for dinner tonight, Chef?” Kayla asked, setting Hazel down again. Hazel darted off before the towel had a chance to do its job.

“Arroz con pollo. Patacones. Salad. And if I have the stamina, maybe arepas.” I shrugged. “Or we can pretend arepas don’t exist in our culture and buy sandwich bread.”

Kayla snorted. “Hazel will riot. She thinks arepas are one of the pillars of her existence.”

As if summoned, Hazel reappeared in the center of the kitchen, this time not alone. Bruno, the fat orange cat, dragged himself behind her like a retired rug. Mars, sleek and black as a shot of espresso, leapt onto a barstool and then onto the counter, tail flicking.

“Bruno! Mars! Come on, we’re making a kitchen castle!” Hazel hauled the two of them past my legs.

“All three of you, out of the crime zone.” I pointed with my spatula. “Hazel, cat 1, cat 2. Out. Go to the living room. Now.”

Hazel hugged Bruno from behind. He accepted his fate, blinking slowly. “But, Bruno wants to learn how to cook. He said he wants to be… a chief.”

“Chef,” I corrected automatically.

“Yes, that.” Hazel nodded solemnly. Her heavy bangs nodded with her. “If he becomes a chef, he can make his own snacks. You won’t get tired.”

Kayla nudged my arm, barely holding in a laugh. “She has a point.”

“Hush.” I added in the peppers and carrots, stirring the now–fragrant sofrito until my eyes stung a little. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“Depends on who’s funnier,” Kayla said, chopping cilantro at the cutting board. “Spoiler: not you.”

Hazel had relocated her operation to the fridge. She opened the door and stood there like a tiny loan shark assessing collateral. “Can I have juice? I’m hungry. My stomach is empty like… like a haunted house.”

“Your stomach is never empty,” I muttered. “Take one. The small one. Not the big one, that’s for tomorrow.”

She grabbed a juice box, shut the fridge with her foot, and took off again. The box flapped wildly in her hand, threatening to fly.

I pressed the rice mixed with chicken broth into the big pot. Steam curled upward, carrying the scent of broth, onions, a hint of cumin.

Hazel climbed onto a barstool, then stood on it. “Can I stir?”

“No.” The answer came out faster than a blink.

She let out an exaggerated sigh. “I’m not allowed to do anything in this house.”

“Seriously?” Kayla turned to her, feigning shock. “You were the queen of the beach for two hours.”

“That was outside.” Hazel crossed her arms. “Inside, I’m just… a baby.”

I glanced at her from the stove, taking in the whole picture: unicorn pajama shorts, cheeks still sun–flushed, bangs sticking to her forehead. “What kind of baby threatens people with a plastic spoon when she doesn’t get ice cream?”

Hazel lifted her tiny chin. “That’s called negotiating.”

Of course it was. Whose child did she think she was?

I opened my mouth to answer, but a soft ding–dong chimed from the front door.

Hazel froze. Her juice box tilted dangerously, and she didn’t wait for an explanation.

“Daddy!” she shrieked, her voice ricocheting off the walls. She jumped off the barstool with a technique engineered specifically to terrify her mother, then shot down the hallway like a tiny missile.

The smack of small feet against the floor and the patter of cat claws joining the sprint, two furry shadows racing behind her.

Kayla exhaled, wiping her hands on a towel. “I’ll watch the rice. Go before she opens the door for a vacuum salesman.”

I was already shrugging out of my apron, tossing it over a chair mid–stride. The hallway toward the front door glowed with the wash of sunset coming through the glass. Hazel had already reached the handle, fingers straining to twist it.

“Hazel, wait, let me open it,” I called, quickening my pace.

Too late because she had already turned the lock and yanked the door wide.

Evening air swept in along with the scent of outside and a tall figure standing in the doorway.

Luca stood there, leaning slightly under the weight of a work bag slung over one shoulder and a carry-on in the other hand. His white shirt was wrinkled at the waist, his jacket hung from his arm, and his blond hair had the disarray that screamed “thirteen-hour flight, one hour in immigration, and tragic airport coffee.”

The moment the door opened, something in his face shifted. The tight line in his jaw eased. “Hey…”

Hazel didn’t wait. She launched herself forward, arms spread. “DADDY!”

Luca nearly dropped his suitcase, but reflex won. He let the work bag hit the floor, bent his knees, and caught Hazel midair, lifting her high. She shrieked, laughter bursting out of her.

He spun her in a half-circle like he might fling her toward the clouds, then drew her close, pressing his nose to her stomach and blowing hard until she squealed and kicked at the air.

“I was gone two days,” Luca murmured between tickling attacks, “Two days. And you gained, what, three kilos? Did you eat the Eiffel Tower?”

Hazel wrapped her arms around his neck, her bangs smacking him in the face. “I ate pancakes with Kayla, and ice cream, and chicken nuggets, and—”

“Trust me,” I muttered from the end of the hall, “she’s just warming up.”

Luca turned, still holding Hazel around her waist, one hand bracing her back. His gray eyes met mine, and something in my chest—something well-trained to stay indifferent, loosened a fraction.

“I’m home,” he said.

I crossed my arms, leaning against the wall. “I can see that. Looks like the airport finally kicked you out.”

He adjusted Hazel so she could settle comfortably against his shoulder. “My flight was delayed three hours,” he went on. “Almost missed the connection. Then security at Charles de Gaulle decided my face was suspicious.”

“Fair. Only a suspicious person would choose to come back to this house.”

Hazel smacked his cheek with her palm. “Daddy, I made a beach castle! A big one! And then Mama tried to kill me with green vegetables.”

Luca raised a brow at me over Hazel’s head, the corner of his mouth curling. “What leafy contraband are you sneaking into my kid now, Maya?”

“I’m smuggling nutrients,” I said, leaning on the word like it was a felony charge. “Unlike someone who sets a terrible example with Nutella crepes at nine p.m. in Paris.”

Luca didn’t even attempt to defend himself. He loosened his hold a little, lowering Hazel so her tiny feet could stand on top of his leather shoes while he still held her from behind.

She swayed her body, making Luca wobble. “See?” Hazel pointed at her feet. “Daddy is like… a skateboard.”

“This is abuse,” Luca observed calmly, though his hands didn’t move an inch away from her.

His footsteps followed mine. Hazel still clung to his waist, half-carried, half-dragged along. She launched into a nonstop report about how the waves were “super mean to our castle,” and how Bruno was “maybe a vampire” because he stayed awake on the couch at night.

Luca listened, nodding at all the right beats, throwing in “wow” and “seriously?” like he was attending a very important presentation, while his tired hand automatically stroked

Hazel’s back up and down. Small, repetitive motions, something instinctive, not deliberate.

From the corner of my eye, when I returned to the stove, I caught their reflection in the small mirror beside the fridge: Hazel with her messy bangs, Luca with faint dark circles under his eyes, their two heads close together, one big, one small.

The image lingered for a moment, like a photograph burning slowly at the edges.

“I brought you something,” Luca said a few minutes later, after setting Hazel on a barstool and turning on the faucet to wash his hands. Water streamed over his wrists, soap foaming up his skin.

“If it’s another Eiffel Tower fridge magnet, our fridge is going to collapse,” I said, stirring the rice. “She already has three.”

Hazel leaned over the counter. “Four!” she corrected. “I need one more. So I can make a tower.”

“See?” Luca dried his hands and looked at me. “It’s for your little architect’s project. Research.”

I rolled my eyes. “So now you’re pretending to be an education sponsor?”

Kayla slipped back into the kitchen, holding up two thumbs at Luca. “Thank God you’re here. She’s been in drill sergeant mode since noon.”

I shot her a look. “I’m not a drill sergeant. I’m just—”

“Latina mom mode on,” Kayla cut in, laughing softly as she went to check the salad.

Hazel had already climbed halfway up her stool, body tilting toward Luca. “Daddy, did you buy something shiny? Something I can show Bruno?”

Luca slipped a hand into the pocket of the jacket still hanging off his arm and pulled out a small light-blue box. He lifted it high, just out of Hazel’s reach.

“What does the little one say, hm?” His voice went playful, though exhaustion tugged at the corners of his eyes. “If she eats her green vegetables tonight, maybe this box will accidentally fall.”

Hazel’s mouth dropped open. She stared between the box and his face. “That’s blackmail.”

I turned, unable to stop a quick snort of laughter. I had used that exact word for the men who’d pulled stunts like that in my past. Coming out of Hazel’s mouth, in that tiny offended tone, it felt strangely harmless.

“Negotiating,” Luca said smoothly. “That’s what Mama calls it.”

Hazel turned to me, betraying me without hesitation. “Mamaaa…”

I pretended to be terribly invested in my pot. “I don’t recall saying anything.”

Bruno, as usual, chose whichever side offered the best long-term benefit. He hopped onto the stool beside Hazel, tail sweeping across the counter. Mars climbed down from the suitcase and padded over to Luca’s feet, circling his ankles.

The kitchen filled up: the sizzle returned when I added the chicken, Hazel’s attempts to negotiate the number of broccoli florets she was required to ingest, Kayla’s commentary drifting in and out, the cats meowing whenever something hit the floor. Luca had settled onto a barstool, one hand turning over an Eiffel magnet, which, yes, ended up being a magnet again, while the other kneaded the tension in his shoulder.

Hazel leaned against his arm, her head fitting perfectly in the curve of Luca’s shoulder. “Daddy, you’re not going away tomorrow, right?”

Luca looked at her for a few seconds, though I couldn’t see his face clearly from the stove. What I did catch was his soft breath before he answered. “Not anytime soon, sweetheart. The big boss needs a break.”

Hazel blinked. “Aren’t you the boss?”

“Exactly,” he said, brushing her bangs aside so they wouldn’t cover her eyes. “Bosses who never take breaks get stressed.”

“I’m a boss too,” Hazel announced. “Boss of Bruno. Boss of Mars. Boss of Kayla. Boss of Mama…”

I turned halfway, lifting my spatula. “Don’t even try.”

Hazel grinned wide, a row of tiny teeth flashing. “Okay, I’m just Daddy’s boss.”

The sentence floated for a moment, light and almost silly, but my fingers paused above the pot for half a heartbeat. Steam brushed my face, forcing me to blink.

Luca let out a soft laugh. He lifted Hazel’s hand and placed it over his own heart.

“Well then, Boss,” he said, “tell Daddy’s heart to slow down a little. It’s been running all day.”

I went back to stirring the rice. The grains, nearly cooked through, shifted in a gentle spiral, drinking up the broth. Behind me, Hazel was already busy issuing detailed instructions for tomorrow: what time Daddy should wake up, how long he had to hug Bruno, who was allowed to sit next to whom during cartoons.

For the past three years, that voice had always been directed at Luca. Those small hands always reached for Luca’s sleeve. The word “Daddy” belonged to one face in this house.

And I never corrected her, even when something inside me growled faintly, the way Bruno did when woken from a nap.

The pot began to simmer quietly. I lowered the heat and covered it. “Dinner in ten minutes.”

“I’m hungry now,” Hazel whined.

“You’re always hungry,” I said. “Your stomach is a black hole, nena.”

“Daddy doesn’t complain when I eat a lot,” she shot back. “Daddy loves me.”

I looked up at the ceiling as if I could see past it, past the roof, to somewhere far above. “Your Daddy is easily bribed with smiles.”

Luca didn’t deny it. In the window’s reflection, I saw him lower his chin and press a brief kiss to the top of Hazel’s head. Long enough to make my shoulders sink another centimeter.

The beach house, which sometimes felt too big for two people, felt full tonight: noise, the smell of dinner, suitcases still unpacked, two cats patrolling, and a man finally home from the other side of the world, carrying a cheap magnet and something far more precious to the child with the heavy bangs.

I tapped the counter with my knuckles. “Hazel,” I called. “Go wash your hands. Kayla, plates. Luca…”

He lifted his head. “Yeah?”

“Don’t sit there too long,” I said, my mouth tilting to one side. “Otherwise I’ll start feeling like this house is half under your name.”

He smiled, tired but complete. “We can negotiate percentages after dinner.”

In my peripheral vision, Hazel hopped down from her stool and sprinted to the bathroom, Bruno and Mars trailing after her like two fuzzy bodyguards. The faucet switched on again.

I returned to the pot, lifting the lid and letting the steam rush out, warming my face. Beneath the aroma of chicken, onions, and cilantro, there was something else in the air tonight, enough to make my fingers pause on the wooden spoon and steal one short breath.

I told myself to keep stirring.

My world still revolved around two things: the lines of buildings on my screen, and the blue-eyed child who called me Mama.

The fact that Luca was at the bar counter, listening to Hazel’s ramble and pressing a brief kiss to her hair… well. That was just a bonus that came later.

A bonus that, slowly, was starting to feel like part of the original blueprint.