Living in Sin
Copyright© 2025 by Al Steiner
Chapter 31: On a Dime
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 31: On a Dime - Two single-parent sheriff’s deputies move into a wealthy, uptight neighborhood and accidentally set off a storm of paranoia, lust, and suburban meltdown. As judgmental neighbors spiral, sexually frustrated housewives come calling. Amid threesomes, gossip, and chaos, Scott and Maggie discover their friendship hides something deeper. Darkly funny, raw, and fearless, Living in Sin is a satire of morality, desire, and the lies we live behind picket fences.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Illustrated
Thursday, February 25, 2026
The day had that soft, teasing warmth that came just before spring—the kind that made people forget winter wasn’t finished yet. Scott walked up to the pickup line, sun on his forearms, sleeves pushed back, a faint breeze stirring the smell of fresh-cut grass and warm asphalt.
The mothers were out in force, gathered in their usual clusters by the fence. Many had already traded sweaters for short-sleeved tops and sandals, bright fabrics flashing under the afternoon light. A gossipy bunch, sure—but quite nice to look at. They were like lava rolling down the side of a volcano: slow, glowing, beautiful, and safe enough to admire from a distance. Get too close, however, and you could get burned to a crisp.
Scott stayed where the temperature was comfortable—on the outer edge of the crowd, hands in his pockets, sunglasses hiding his eyes. The moms had mostly stopped paying much attention to him these days. He was soooo last month now that there was so much newer, juicier gossip to occupy them. That suited Scott just fine.
A ripple moved through the crowd—one of those small social waves you could feel without hearing—and every head turned toward the curb.
The new Linden nanny had arrived.
She was hard to miss: long blond hair, tight powder-blue blouse, a body that drew glances from half the parking lot. Her boobs appeared to be aftermarket accessories—something Scott was generally not into (though it wasn’t a deal breaker)—but her surgeon had possessed talent. They seemed to have their own gravitational pull, drawing in the eyeballs of male and female alike. If she told him she was old enough to buy alcohol, Scott wouldn’t believe her.
“She’s the new nanny, right?” someone murmured nearby.
“Judith’s nanny,” another confirmed. “Can you believe it? I thought she’d fired the last one for wearing rainbow nail polish.”
“I suspect maybe her husband hired this one,” a third said dryly.
Soft laughter rippled through the group.
Then came the theories.
“Judith’s in rehab, for sure.”
“No, it’s a breakdown. Did you see her at that HOA meeting? Totally unhinged.”
“I heard divorce.”
“Please. Jail. It’s always jail with people like her.”
Scott didn’t say a word. He kept his expression neutral, gaze drifting toward the school gates. He’d learned a long time ago that silence was the safest position in Gardenville—especially when you actually knew what the hell had happened. Well ... more than the gossip circle anyway.
He knew because one of his regular Saturday biking partners—a DA investigator who used to work for Heritage PD—had told him. Gardenville PD had found Judith Linden not long after she’d stormed out of the station interview, hiding in the Dry Creek greenbelt. Shoeless, disoriented, nylons ripped to shreds, clutching her purse like it was evidence. They’d 5150’d her, taken her to Baptist of Heritage—County Hospital to anyone who’d ever worked a call there—and left her in the hallway on a gurney for six hours.
When the telepsychiatrist finally appeared on a monitor, Judith had apparently convinced him she wasn’t gravely disabled. She walked out barefoot with a taxi voucher and disappeared.
Only Maggie knew he knew. Nobody else ever would.
“Maybe she ran off with someone,” one of the moms said now. “She really is a hypocrite.”
“Not her style,” another said. “She wouldn’t be able to help gossiping about herself.”
More laughter. The mean kind that came easy when the target wasn’t there.
The school bell finally broke the rhythm. The gates opened, and a rush of children spilled out into the afternoon sun, scattering the gossip like startled birds. The mothers smiled again, calling names, waving at their kids, the world returning to its practiced suburban normal.
Scott watched the Linden nanny herd her charges along—cheerful, clueless, radiant in the late light. The gossip would eat her alive soon enough. Even if Judith wasn’t there to help it along.
Scott led Christopher and Katie across the lot toward the old Tacoma. It wasn’t pretty—sun-faded paint, a dent in one fender—but it still ran smooth. The extended cab gave the kids a real backseat, and they scrambled in, backpacks landing with soft thuds.
“Seatbelts,” Scott said automatically. Two clicks answered him.
They rolled out of the school lot with the windows cracked. The breeze carried the smell of cut grass and warm pavement, the sky bright enough to hint at spring.
“Feels like summer already,” Katie said, squinting up at the sun.
“Don’t get used to it,” Scott told her. “We’ll have rain by Saturday.”
Traffic thinned as they turned into their neighborhood. He hit the opener and eased into the garage, Maggie’s SUV already parked in its spot beside his. He shut the engine off and listened for a second—the faint tick of the cooling motor, the house quiet beyond the door.
“Be quiet inside,” he reminded as they climbed out.
“Mom’s still sleeping?” Christopher asked.
“Yeah. Last night of her week. Let’s keep it that way.”
The house was dim, the air heavy with the slow-cooked smell of tomato and garlic. Scott had started the crock pot that morning before Maggie came home, and the sauce had been working all day, filling the kitchen with warmth.
He pulled the wax paper bundles from the counter. “Snack time.”
Katie unwrapped hers. “Salami and cheese again.”
“Traditional Thursday issue,” Scott said.
Christopher frowned at his sandwich. “Not the kind with those little black things, right?”
“Nope. The safe kind.”
“What are the black things, anyway?” Katie asked.
Scott hesitated. “Spices. Probably pepper. Or something.”
Katie looked unimpressed. “You’re supposed to know stuff, Dad.”
“I know how to buy the right kind of salami,” he said. “That’s all the knowledge you need.”
She grinned and held out her hand. “Phone.”
He handed it over. A few seconds of scrolling later, she read aloud: “It says the black bits in salami are usually whole black peppercorns. Sometimes juniper berries, but mostly pepper. It’s for flavor.”
Christopher made a face. “That’s stupid.”
“It’s tradition,” Katie said, handing the phone back. “Adults do dumb stuff and call it that.”
Scott chuckled, heading to the crock pot. He lifted the lid and gave the sauce a slow stir. Perfect. He’d get up at 5:15 to boil spaghetti noodles and toast the garlic bread before heading to work.
“Okay,” he said, wiping his hands. “You two are on autopilot until I get up. No combustion on the stove. Remember what happened last time? And if homework and chores aren’t done by the time Nana gets here, it’s a week in juvie at hard labor.”
Katie raised her juice box. “Understood.”
Christopher nodded solemnly. “Do we still get visiting hours?”
“No,” Scott said. “All you do is labor.”
“Wow,” Christopher said, impressed.
He checked that the back door was locked and headed upstairs. The house was quiet now except for the faint hum of the ventilation and the whisper of pencil lead on paper at the kitchen table.
The bedroom was dark and cool behind the blackout curtains. Maggie lay on her side, buried in the sheets, hair splayed across the pillow. Three night shifts behind her, one to go.
Scott undressed quietly and slipped into bed beside her. Her skin was warm and pleasant against his. And she smelled like sex. Steamy, raunchy, threesome sex. That was because the two of them had enjoyed another little threesome with Lena that morning after the kids were dropped off.
It had been enjoyable as hell—and not just because of the sex. There had been no secret agent stuff involved. Now that Judith was among the missing and unheard from, they had not bothered trying to make Lena’s visit clandestine. She and Ranger had just walked over, knocked on the door (Lena, not Ranger did this part) and had been invited in. And the temptress and her goofy canine had just walked back out again ninety-three minutes later, the former with an aroma of her own and her hair somewhat ragged and out of sorts.
Scott had taken a rinse shower before picking up the kids. Maggie had not and her odor was powerful beneath the covers. Scott didn’t mind though. It was a pleasant associative smell.
Maggie cuddled into him. He couldn’t see her, but he heard her breathing change; that small shift that meant she’d drifted up from sleep.
“Kids on autopilot?” she murmured.
“Yep,” he said, pulling her body a little closer. “I’ll get up at five-fifteen to finish up dinner.”
“Okay.” She adjusted against him, finding the spot that fit, then went still for a long moment.
When she spoke again her voice was soft, almost uncertain. “I love you, Dover.”
The words landed quietly but with weight, and for a second Scott just lay there, the sound of them settling in his chest. It wasn’t surprise so much as recognition—like something that had already been true had finally been said out loud.
He kissed the top of her head, letting the warmth of her hair linger against his lips. “I love you too, Winslow,” he said. “And now we can sleep.”
She smiled against his shoulder, and he felt it—the curve of it—before the rhythm of her breathing slowed again.
The kitchen was thick with the scent of peppers, smoke, and something sweet from the tomatoes. The jambalaya had been on the stove since morning—thick, red, and barely shifting on a lazy simmer. At the counter, sleeves pushed up, Stacy Foxx showed her nine-year-old daughter Jazmyn (pronounced Jaz-min, emphasis on the second syllable—not Jasmine, just as Mikul was not Michael) how to peel and “de-vein” shrimp.
“Pinch here, peel back, then slide the knife just under the line,” Stacy said, dragging the tip along a neat groove and rinsing the shrimp under a trickle of water.
Jazzie grimaced. “This is so gross.”
“You get used to it,” Stacy said, dropping the cleaned shrimp into a glass bowl.
“What even is that line?” Jazzie asked, leaning in, fascinated and horrified.
“They call it a vein,” Stacy said, too casually. She decided not to explain that ‘vein’ was a euphemism for ‘digestive tract’. There would be time for that lesson when Jazzie was a little older and less easily grossed out.
Across the kitchen, Mikul sat in his high chair, legs kicking, a halo of beanie weenies around his tray. He lifted his sippy cup and took a triumphal slurp, eyes glued to the shrimp show like it was prime-time TV.
“Why do the shrimp go in last if everything else has been in there all day?” Jazzie asked, wiping her hands on a paper towel.
“Because shrimp cook in a minute,” Stacy said. “If we put them in early they turn into little pink rubber bands.”
“Still gross,” Jazzie said, but she reached for the next one and did the peel-and-slit just like she’d been shown. It slipped out of her fingers and flopped back into the bowl. “Ugh.”
“You’re doing fine,” Stacy said, fishing it out and handing it back. “Light touch.”
Jazzie glanced toward the front of the house, then back. “So ... who’s coming over?”
“My new friend from the grocery store,” Stacy said, keeping her tone even. “The blonde one at checkout—Hannah.”
“The one you always talk to when we go shopping now? The one whose line you get in even if it’s not the shortest?”
“That’s the one. We ran into each other at the gym, started talking, and last week I went to watch her play volleyball at the college. It was really fun. She’s never had real jambalaya, so since your father is out of town—and we don’t have to tiptoe around his shellfish allergy—I thought I’d invite her over for some.”
Jazzie absorbed this, serious. “We never have people over.”
Stacy’s hands paused over the cutting board. “We don’t?”
“Not friends,” Jazzie said, matter-of-fact. “Just Nana. And sometimes Daddy’s work people for like five minutes but that doesn’t count.”
Mikul banged his spoon once, as if voting.
Stacy felt the truth of it land—plain, simple, undeniable. “Huh,” she said softly. “I guess you’re right.”
Jazzie nodded, satisfied with her data, then stabbed at another shrimp. “I like her. She always smiles at me and doesn’t talk to me like I’m a baby.”
“Good,” Stacy said, clearing her throat. “Then let’s not freak her out by smelling like the ocean. Finish that bowl and then we’ll get our hands nice and clean.”
They worked in a small, efficient silence. Shrimp slid into the bowl, the pot exhaled spice, Mikul murmured to his cup. Stacy stirred the jambalaya once, then folded the shrimp through, the pink turning opaque as the heat kissed them. She then turned off the burner and put the lid down. The shrimp would cook perfectly just from the residual heat of the jambalaya.
She wiped her hands, glanced at the clock, and had the brief, odd feeling of standing on a threshold she hadn’t noticed until her daughter pointed it out.
The doorbell rang. Mikul let out a sharp squawk of protest when Stacy stepped away from the counter.
“It’s okay, Beanie,” Jazmyn said quickly, sliding in beside him. She gave him his sippy cup and a calm, practiced smile. “Mom’s just getting the door.”
Mikul frowned, considering, then decided she was trustworthy enough to stay mad at only a little. He went back to tapping his spoon on the tray, watching her like she might disappear too.
Stacy wiped her hands on the towel and smoothed her hair out of habit as she crossed through the living room, then the smaller formal space that mostly held Preston’s taste in furniture. The house was suddenly quiet except for the faint clatter of Mikul’s spoon. Her heart gave one extra thump as she reached for the knob.
Hannah stood on the porch, framed by the last gold light of the day. She wore a sleeveless top and shorts, her skin sun-touched, her hair loose and falling around her shoulders. No makeup—just that open, genuine smile that always seemed to disarm everyone in a five-foot radius.
“Hey,” Stacy said, and her voice came out softer than she meant.
“Hey yourself.”
For a beat neither moved, then they both stepped forward. The hug was natural, automatic—and it lasted a heartbeat too long. Hannah smelled of body wash and sunshine and something faintly floral that clung to the cotton of her shirt.
“You made it,” Stacy said when they finally drew apart.
“As instructed.” Hannah lifted her empty hands with a grin. “You said not to bring anything, so—mission accomplished.”
“Perfect,” Stacy said, smiling.
“Kelly wasn’t able to come,” Hannah added, glancing past her into the house. “She said she got invited to a party and told me to tell you she’s sorry.”
Stacy nodded, but the change in Hannah’s voice—lighter at the end, eyes sliding away—was a small tell. Stacy didn’t have to be a cop to hear it. Kelly wasn’t at any party. Hannah just wanted the evening to belong to them. That realization caused a little flutter in her stomach.
“Too bad,” Stacy said lightly, stepping back to let her in.
The smell of jambalaya hit Hannah first. She inhaled, eyes widening. “Oh wow. That smells amazing.”
Stacy smiled, oddly pleased by the reaction. “Come on in. It’s just about ready.”
She led her through the living room toward the kitchen, where Jazmyn’s chatter and Mikul’s happy squeals floated up to meet them.
The kitchen was thick with the smell of spice and simmered tomatoes when Stacy and Hannah walked in. Mikul gave a happy squeal from his high chair, flinging his spoon onto the tray. Jazmyn looked up from where she’d been wiping crumbs.
“Hey, Jazzie,” Stacy said. “You remember Hannah—from the grocery store.”
Jazmyn nodded shyly. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Hannah said, smiling at her. “It’s nice to see you without a conveyor belt between us.”
That earned a small grin. “Mom says you play sports.”
“Beach volleyball right now, flag football in the fall. First year at CSUH.” Hannah’s tone was easy; she leaned on the counter, sunlight catching in her hair. She watched the steam curl up from the pot. “That looks so good. What’s the dish called again?”
“Jambalaya,” Stacy said proudly. “My mom’s recipe. She grew up on the bayou—tiny place called Crimson Bayou, down in Louisiana. Same town Marcie Scanlon’s from.”
“Should I know who that is?” Hannah asked.
“You’re making me feel old,” Stacy said with a small laugh. “She was Marcie Rhodes back then—later became the keyboard player and one of the singers for a band called Brainwash. They were teachers turned musicians, pretty famous back in the early 2000s. My mom swears she went to high school with her—says she used to sing at church socials before she was famous.”
“Wow,” Hannah said, genuinely intrigued. “That’s kind of amazing.”
“Mom always said her jambalaya recipe was the real thing—passed down through at least four generations.” Stacy stirred the pot, folding the shrimp through. Steam rose, filling the room with warmth. “Of course, I use half the Cajun spice for non-Cajun mouths like Jazzie’s and Mikul’s—and yours.”
“I like spicy,” Hannah said, watching the shrimp turn pink in the sauce. “I can’t wait.”
Stacy poured a glass of iced tea and slid it across the counter. “Here, try this.”
“Thank you.” Hannah took a sip, eyes still roaming the kitchen. “You have a nice house.”
“Thanks. It’s lived-in,” Stacy said wryly.
Jazmyn wiped her hands on a towel and climbed onto one of the stools. “Mom, did you tell her I play soccer?”
Stacy glanced over. “Not yet.”
“I play soccer,” Jazmyn announced to Hannah. “But I don’t really like it.”
“No?” Hannah asked gently. “Then why do you play?”
“Father says it’s the best sport for girls if you want to go pro.” Jazmyn said it the way a student recites a lesson. “He says I need something to fall back on too—like Business—because I probably won’t make it as a professional athlete. He says Business works either way. If I do make it, I’ll know how to handle my money, and if I don’t, I’ll have a job skill until I meet my husband.”
The words landed like dropped silverware. For a moment the only sound was Mikul softly thumping his cup.
Hannah blinked, caught off guard. “That’s ... one way to plan for the future,” she said kindly.
Stacy felt the flush creep up her neck. “Your father likes practical advice,” she said, a little too brightly, and hoped Hannah could hear the apology tucked inside.
Mikul started fussing then, breaking the moment.
“Hey, Beanie,” Jazmyn said, unbuckling him. “You know you can’t play in the kitchen when Mommy’s cooking.”
He let out a small protest, but she kissed his head. “Come on, Beanie. Let’s go find your blocks.”
They disappeared down the hallway, Mikul babbling happily in her arms.
Hannah watched them go. “She’s great with him.”
“She really is,” Stacy said softly. She gave the pot another slow stir, letting the rhythm settle her heartbeat.
They sat down at the kitchen table just as the sun slipped behind the houses across the street, leaving the room wrapped in soft amber light. Stacy ladled the jambalaya into bowls, the rice thick and glossy from the long simmer.
“Moment of truth,” she said, setting one in front of Hannah.
Hannah took a cautious bite. Her eyes widened immediately. “Oh wow,” she said after swallowing. “That’s ... incredible. Seriously. It’s spicy, but—good spicy.”
Stacy smiled, a small ripple of pride pushing through her usual self-doubt. “Not too much heat?”
“Just enough to make you pay attention.”
Even Mikul, seated back in his high chair with a toddler portion, was shoveling small spoonfuls with determined precision. Jazmyn ate with practiced familiarity, reaching for her bread like she’d been waiting all week for this exact meal.
Stacy took her own first bite and stopped mid-chew, surprised. It was perfect—layers of smoke and garlic and pepper, the shrimp tender and sweet. She’d hit every mark. She couldn’t remember the last time she hadn’t found a way to critique herself.
“Okay,” she admitted. “I think I might have just peaked.”
“You definitely did,” Hannah said, tearing off a piece of bread. “This bread is amazing too. Bel Air, right? I know that rack. The sourdough that costs more than gas.”
“Exactly that one,” Stacy said, laughing. “Worth every cent.”
They ate for a while, the conversation light—music, classes, the weather. Then Hannah leaned back, her bowl empty, and said, “My mom would be so jealous if she saw this. She thinks anything with more than two spices is reckless.”
“Your mom cooks?”
“Yeah. She’s the kind of Catholic mom who believes food and prayer solve everything. Sunday mass, dinner at six sharp, confession every other Saturday—whether you’ve sinned or not.”
Stacy smiled. “That sounds ... traditional.”
“It is,” Hannah said, her tone affectionate but wry. “She and my dad met in the church choir, married right after college. They tried for kids for years—didn’t have me until they were almost forty, then Kelly two years later. So they’re strict, but not crazy strict. We could watch PG-13 movies as long as there wasn’t kissing.”
Stacy raised an eyebrow. “Not violence—kissing?”
“Exactly,” Hannah said with a laugh. “My mom says violence is pretend, but kissing leads to temptation. I don’t think she realizes how backward that sounds.”
“She probably does,” Stacy said. “She just doesn’t care.”
“Probably.” Hannah traced a fingertip along the condensation on her glass. “They mean well—I know they do. It’s just ... they expect me to be this perfect Catholic daughter who never questions anything. And that’s hard now that I’m an adult but still living at home. It’s hard on Kelly too. She’s following my path—using athletics to get into college. Breaking the mold, kind of.”
Stacy watched her closely. There was no bitterness in Hannah’s voice—just that tug-of-war between love and independence that felt achingly familiar.
“You sound like you’re figuring it out,” Stacy said gently.
Hannah shrugged. “Trying to. I love them, I really do. But I want to live my own life. I don’t think that makes me a bad daughter, even if they sometimes act like it does.”
“It doesn’t,” Stacy said. “It makes you a grown-up.”
Hannah’s eyes met hers across the table—steady, open, and for the first time that night, completely unguarded.
By the time the plates were empty, even Mikul had eaten more than anyone expected. Jazmyn wiped his face with a damp napkin and announced that dinner was “the best thing ever.” She scooped her brother up, and he went willingly this time.
“Come on, Beanie,” she said. “Let’s go build towers before bath time.”
They disappeared into the living room, Mikul giggling at something only he could see.
Stacy began stacking dishes. “You can just sit and digest,” she told Hannah. “I’ve got this.”
“No way,” Hannah said, already on her feet. “At my house, the girls cook and clean. Dad just watches TV with a beer and complains about the refs. It wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t help.”
Stacy smiled. “Well, I can’t argue with cultural tradition.”
They fell into a rhythm—Stacy rinsing, Hannah drying. The clatter of dishes and the low hum of Jazmyn’s voice in the next room filled the comfortable spaces between their words.
“You’re really good at this,” Hannah said after a while. “All of it—the cooking, the kids, the house. You make it look easy.”
Stacy chuckled softly. “It’s not. You just get practiced at the juggling.”
Hannah leaned against the counter, towel in hand, her expression suddenly thoughtful. “I feel ... I don’t know. Comfortable, I guess. Around you.” She hesitated, cheeks coloring. “Other than Kelly, I’ve never really felt close to anyone like this. With my teammates it’s about the game—camaraderie, winning and losing and all that. This feels different. Does that make sense?”
“It makes perfect sense,” Stacy said. She set down the glass she’d been rinsing and met Hannah’s eyes. “That’s called friendship. Simple bonding between two girls who like each other.”
Hannah thought about that, twisting the towel between her fingers. “Girls who like each other don’t usually kiss, though ... right?”
“Sometimes they do,” Stacy said quietly. “When they’re really good friends.”
Hannah’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Even if one of them is ... you know ... a lesbian?”
“Even then,” Stacy said, her tone calm and kind. “It just means they trust each other enough to be honest about what they feel.”
For a moment they stood there, the scent of spice and dish soap mingling in the warm air, the faint sounds of children’s laughter drifting in from the living room. Stacy picked up another plate and handed it to Hannah, and their fingers brushed—light, accidental, enough to make them both pause before they went on with the dishes.
The evening settled into the comfortable lull that always followed a good meal. The smell of jambalaya still hung in the air, mingled with the faint sweetness of dish soap. Stacy poured herself and Hannah another glass of iced tea and turned off the last of the kitchen lights.
“Your husband is away again?” Hannah asked as they moved toward the living room.
“Mm-hmm,” Stacy said. “Once a month at least. Usually Kansas City, but this week it’s Santiago, Chile. He’ll be back Sunday.” Hopefully not dragging a Chilean STD with him—not that I could catch it anyway, she thought.
“Wow. That’s far.”
“He likes to remind me of that whenever I complain about him missing things,” Stacy said with a small smile. “Time zones, long flights, poor cell service—the usual corporate excuses.”
They both laughed softly and dropped onto the couch. Jazmyn wedged herself on the other side of her mother with a bowl of popcorn, and Mikul plopped down on the rug with his blocks.
“Okay,” Hannah said, grabbing the remote. “You pick. I never know what’s safe to watch in someone else’s house.”
“Something dumb,” Stacy said. “Dumb is good.”
They landed on Modern Family. Hannah laughed at the title. “My parents never let us watch this. They say it has an agenda.”
“Your parents and mine would have gotten along,” Stacy said. “Let’s see what the agenda is.”
Within five minutes Hannah was giggling at the onscreen chaos. She sat close enough that their shoulders brushed now and then when she laughed, and each time Stacy felt it like a small pulse of warmth. The show rolled on, one episode into the next, popcorn disappearing by the handful. Mikul built towers that fell every few minutes, squealing with delight each time they crashed.
Stacy worried Hannah might be bored by the domestic chaos, but when she glanced over, the girl was radiant—completely at ease, eyes bright with laughter. The house hadn’t felt this light in a long time.
After an hour Jazmyn stretched and stood up. “Can I give Beanie his bath tonight?”
Stacy checked the time. “Sure,” she said. “Since your father’s not home.”
“Come on, Beanie,” Jazmyn said, lifting Mikul from the rug. “Let’s go find your ducks.”
Mikul squealed happily as they disappeared down the hall. The sound of running water followed, then a splash and Jazmyn’s mock scolding.
“They’re adorable,” Hannah said, still smiling toward the hallway.
“They are,” Stacy said. “She’s a great big sister. Mikey absolutely worships her.”
“She seems really responsible,” Hannah said after a moment. “Why does your husband care if she gives him a bath?”
Stacy sighed lightly. “He has rules. Thinks boys and girls who aren’t married shouldn’t see each other naked.”
Hannah blinked. “But he’s a toddler. And she’s not even ten.”
“I know.” Stacy shrugged, drying her hands on a dish towel she’d brought from the kitchen. “Not a battle worth fighting at this point in life.”
Hannah looked as if she wanted to say more but let it drop. From down the hall came another burst of laughter and a splash that made both women smile.
A few minutes later Stacy went to check on them, towel in hand. She helped Mikul out of the tub and into his pajamas while Jazmyn gathered the bath toys. By the time they returned to the living room, Mikul’s damp hair was sticking up like a dandelion.
“Okay, Mikey-Mike,” Stacy said. “Say goodnight to Hannah.”
But Mikul wanted more than just a simple verbalized goodnight. He toddled straight across the rug and climbed into Hannah’s lap. She blinked in surprise, then laughed and steadied him.
“Well, that’s amazing,” Stacy said, amused. “He’s in his stranger-danger phase.”
Mikul beamed up at Hannah. “Hanana,” he declared proudly. Banana with an H, Stacy thought, delighted. How freaking cute!
Both women burst out laughing. “Close enough,” Hannah said, hugging him lightly.