Isabelle was cleaning the breakfast dishes when she heard a sudden commotion coming from outside her kitchen door.
“Damien! Look over here, Damien!”
She must have been imagining it. She kept scrubbing futilely at the bits of oatmeal encrusted on the Paw Patrol bowl.
The noise grew louder.
“Damien! This way, Damien! We love you!”
The door opened. There must have been a dozen voices all shouting his name. Breathless, she turned around and she saw him standing in silhouette framed by flashbulbs. Even before his chiseled features came into focus, he was unmistakable by the outline of his jaw, the was his tousled hair framed his head in a roguish halo.
The door closed behind him and all was quiet. She dropped her sponge with a wet thud on the floor.
“Izzy,” he panted, his toned arms outstretched, a vein visible beneath his tight tee shirt, “Go up to the bedroom and scroll through your phone for an hour. I’ll do the rest of the dishes.”
She felt her jaw go slack.
“You know what,” he whispered into her ear, his voice steady with the confidence of an internationally beloved pop star, “Make it two hours of phone scrolling.”
Kate couldn’t believe she let her daughter drag her to this concert. Her legs ached from hours of standing in the new sandals she was now deeply regretting, and her head was killing her from standing so close to the stage.