They come three times a week and Emma knows their order by heart: lasagna on Mondays, burgers on Thursdays and grilled cheese and tomato soup on Fridays. He lets her have a piece of chocolate cake on Fridays but any other day the dessert is a fruit salad and Emma is sufficiently impressed with both father and daughter. The later for not complaining about the healthy desert when Granny's has an array of heavenly-looking, cholesterol-inducing sweets and the former for having imparted such an attitude.
By this point Emma is convinced that it is him, and him alone, the ruggedly handsome, blue-eyed and sharply-dressed man, who has taught his angel of a girl to appreciate the healthier sources of sugar. They have been coming here for the past two months and she has never seen a woman with them, never even heard one mentioned. And he is suspiciously lacking a wedding ring.
Not that she has been eavesdropping or spying or anything. No, no, Emma does not pay special attention to any of her clients. And she most certainly does not imagine the well-built brunet swinging his daughter over his shoulder, her chestnut curls bouncing all around her sweet little face. And she does not think about him making pancakes on a Sunday morning with his spitfire of a daughter sticking her tongue at him when she steals the first pancake in 20 minutes that he has managed to put on his own plate. And she does not picture him carrying the babbling girl to bed to regale her with a ridiculously original and trilling fairytale, complete with silly voices and the works.
Nope, Emma Swan refuses to admit that she is completely smitten with the absolutely adorable pair that brightens three out of her six workdays.
Doesn't make it any less true of course.
And really if she has to admit and think about it, she will place most of the blame on the way the girl's pink lips fall into a little 'o' every time she sees Emma coming towards their table, regardless of whether she is bringing a cake or a salad, and the way her father's eyes seem to light up the second he comes through the door and catches Emma's gaze for a split second before he is being insistently tugged towards their table.
Today is no different. The child's mouth falls in what can only be described as awe when she sees Emma approaching with her orange juice. The drawing in front of her suddenly completely forgotten. Emma feels a suspicious flutter somewhere in the vicinity of her heart before the vibrant blues on the sheet of paper catch her attention. She leans forward to examine the messy drawing with what she fears might be a fond smile on her face.
She just may have a drawing of a sunflower by the same young author taped to her fridge. And, no, she did not steal it after it was forgotten behind like some creep, thank you very much. It was presented to her with as much flourish and giggling as can be expected from the five-year-old girl and her gentlemen of a father along with her always-more-than-generous tip.
"What do you have here?" asks Emma before she can stop herself, keeping her voice from becoming patronizing or child-like.
She rather admires the man's way of talking to his kid as if she is fully capable of following and contributing to all his thoughts and feels no inclination to question his approach.
"Ship! Like Daddy's!" the kid grins happily but doesn't take her eyes off Emma.
The blonde's eyes jump to the man across the booth instinctively, her expression both questioning and impressed.
"Indeed. Soon you would be designing better ships than daddy, wouldn't you, little love?" he says in that smooth accent of his that Emma has grown dangerously fond of.
But before she can start brainstorming on the dangers of irresistibly sweet and gorgeous single dads, Emma feels a sharp tug on her hair and lets out a surprised and slightly pained gasp.
"Annabelle!"
The brunet is out of his seat and beside her in seconds, his hand reaching forward and wrapping around his daughter's as he tries to simultaneously give her a stern look and send Emma an equally apologetic one.
"I'm so sorry! She does that a lot but usually only with friends and family. Elsa, my sister-in-law, has found braids and ponytails to be absolutely mandatory when we are visiting."
Emma thinks she would find his babbling even more adorable, if half her scalp wasn't on fire.
"Annabelle. You are hurting Emma. Let go," he says in a no-nonsense voice and the blonde is once again impressed with the lack of threats or bargains that most of the parents who visit the diner with their offspring seem to have a penchant for.
Another thing she is impressed with is the immediate relief she feels as the girl lets go of the strands of hair in her tiny but powerful grip. The warm feeling in the pit of her stomach that forms upon hearing her name from his lips for the very first time probably deserves a mention as well.
"Good girl. Now. Do you have anything to say, Anna?"
"Imma sorry," says the little girl even though her eyes are still greedily drinking in Emma's blonde curls.
Her father has obviously noticed that as well because he chuckles and ruffles his daughter's hair before shooting her another apologetic look.
"I'm really sorry about that, lass. But I can't really blame her for being mesmerized by a lovely lady's lovely golden locks."
Emma's eyes find his, a guarded look taking over her features, slightly put off by the thought of him flirting with her in front of his daughter. That is before she notices the curious sincerity in his blue gaze. Emma was quite unaccustomed to sincerity.
"I'm afraid I have failed to introduce myself to the woman who has been making sure we don't go hungry for some time now," he smiles kind of sheepishly at her and any and all apprehension Emma might have been able to cultivate evaporates in the blink of an eye (or a rather startled flutter). "Killian Jones. And this little treasure of mine is Annabelle. And aren't we all glad she didn't start on that grilled cheese before tangling her fingers in your hair."
Annabelle blushes and beams at her all in the same instant and if Emma thought she was charmed before she is absolutely screwed now.