Alpha Lockwood
“It’s probably a dog, baby.”
Rosalyn gasped softly, her whole face lighting with surprise.
Her eyes widened with sudden realization, and she let out a tiny, breathy, “Oh.” Then she leaned closer to me and whispered loudly, “It still looks like a potato. Mama just doesn’t want to say that it is a potato.”
A laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it, warm and unguarded. Mia shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose, knowing well that Rosalyn was playing her part well enough with her imagination.
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