The Billionaire's Regret
A small storm entering the impact zone.
I turned. Poppy was running toward me from the stairs, her long hair a brown cloud around her face, bangs covering almost her entire forehead. Her unicorn pajamas had been replaced by a soft yellow dress Salma chose, but only one strawberry-patterned sock had made it onto her foot. The other was lost somewhere in the universe. Her poor bunny doll dragged across the floor, one ear nearly torn off.
“Okay. Ten o’clock tornado incoming,” I murmured.
Poppy paused at the back of the sofa, then climbed it from the side like a mountain goat. Her knee bumped my waist, one small hand shooting straight for the phone before I could retreat.