Central Park was a riot of autumn gold and crisp blue air, but for Damian Blackwood, it felt like a minefield. He stood by the Great Lawn, dressed in a casual cashmere sweater and dark jeans a look that cost thousands but was currently being threatened by a sticky blue popsicle in Mia’s left hand.
"He's sweating," Liam whispered to Noah, both boys standing five feet away with their arms crossed, watching their father with the clinical detachment of scientists observing a lab rat.
"He should be," Noah replied, adjusted his small sunglasses. "He’s outnumbered and he doesn't have a spreadsheet."
Ava sat on a nearby bench, a takeout coffee in her hand and a pair of dark shades obscuring her eyes. She looked like a queen watching a gladiator match. She had given Damian three rules: No nannie
