Octavia tries very hard not to sniffle. Feeling awkward as hell, I pat her shoulder, hoping to comfort her.

Octavia presses her little body against my leg, hugging it. Poor thing.

“I’m sure he’ll be here in no time. Where was he when you last saw him?” I rub her back.

“We were…in front of the store. I told him about the notebook and then I came to see it from up close.”

I don’t think I saw a man close to us at all. She must have dashed in the store while he was distracted.

It doesn’t take long. He comes at a jog, though his patent leather loafers certainly don’t seem designed for it.

“Vivi!” he calls, clear panic in his blue eyes, until he spots her, still attached to my leg.

I feel awkward as hell. Am I supposed to touch her back and let her cling to me like this? People can be, rightfully, rather strict about strangers interacting with young kids. But no, I did nothing wrong. He didn’t monitor his kid; I just provided a little warmth while she was scared, and about to cry.

No wonder she’s this pretty. She got very nice genes from her dad. The man looks so much like her. Blond, with a hairstyle a little longer than what’s fashionable, and ocean-blue eyes rather than her golden amber, he’s dressed in chinos and a light blue shirt under a blazer. The picture of propriety. Tall, and clearly athletic under the preppy clothes, he makes me think about a Ralph Lauren ad. Come to think of it, Octavia could also be on the cover.

“Da!” she says, all sadness gone, just like that. “I found the notebook. It’s so pretty. Can I have it, please, please, please?”

He runs his hand through his golden hair with a clearly relieved sigh. “Dammit, Octavia. I’m on the phone for two minutes and you just walk away? That’s definitely not okay. Your mom’s gonna kill me.”

He notices me then, frowning. Probably because his kid’s still hooked around my leg.

“Oh. I’m Claire.” I make myself smile. “I kept Octavia company.”

There’s something of a challenge in my tone. Go on, tell me I had no business chatting with your daughter, so I can shout at you for being so busy on the phone you freaking let her get away.

“Is that right?”

“Claire goes red like a piglet in the summer! And her hair explodes!”

He shakes his head, chuckling. “Naturally.”

“Oink, oink,” I repeat, dryly.

“I’m not surprised. You’re as pale as a ghost. Sunscreen must be your best friend, huh?”

I guess he’s not giving me a hard time. “And big, ridiculous hats.”