Mike hadn’t been kidding when he told Mary that Zoey had gotten him through that awful first year. They’d continued to meet once or twice a week. It wasn’t anything formal—he’d just show up, and she’d pull out the plastic cups so they could enjoy a glass of the wine the Finger Lakes region was so famous for. Or something stronger. On hot summer nights, it might be an ice-cold soda from the antique vending machine she and her dad had refurbished together.

He opened the bottle of whiskey, holding it up for her approval.

“A bottle of Paddy’s, courtesy of my cousin at the Shamrock.” He grinned. “Bridget says hi.”

Bridget ran the McKinnon family pub, the Purple Shamrock. All the cousins owned a portion, but Bridget was the majority owner and manager.

Zoey snorted. “Liar. You stole that bottle without telling her, didn’t you?”

“Meh...” He shrugged. “I’ll tell her eventually.” He poured a splash in each cup, but she nudged hers.

“I think I need a double tonight.”

He obliged, pouring until she waved him off. She told him about Hazel’s adventures in school, and Zoey’s meeting with Ted Sheffield. Mike thought about it. “It sounds like you did everything right. You made sure the punishment fit the crime...for both kids. You talked to Hazel about not punching first and asking questions later. So...” He nodded toward her cup. “Why the double tonight?”

Zoey’s face fell. “She’s growing up so damn fast, Mike. I swear it was just yesterday she was running around the house dressed like Cinderella and begging us for a coach and six white horses for her birthday.” Zoey gave him a chagrined look. “I didn’t always understand her fascination with all things sparkly, but I loved that she believed in it so much, you know? That innocence...” Her voice trailed off. “Now she’s punching boys for grabbing her bra. When did she get old enough to wear a bra? And when did she grow up enough to have to deal with boys? My little princess has vanished. I don’t know if I’m ready to deal with a teenager.”

“Look, I can’t help with parenting advice.” Mike ignored the stab of pain the topic always brought. “But I can tell you that you can deal with anything. You’re the fiercest woman I know, and your daughter’s just like you. Except...frillier.”

Zoey had never been one to care about clothes, especially as a kid. Not that she didn’t ever dress up—he remembered the flowy blue dress she’d worn to Mary’s wedding. The way it swirled when she’d chased after a then-toddler-sized Hazel.

After a long pause, Zoey took a swig of her drink and scrunched her face.

“Whew! I mean...it’s good whiskey, but...whoa.”