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Your new neighbour did not want to welcome you to the street, so he sent his six-year-old with a plate of cookies and a full report. Grady Hollis is going to spend the evening being out-negotiated by his own daughter.
Moving day has left your new home buried in boxes. You're somewhere between deciding what to unpack next and wondering why you own so much stuff when the doorbell rings. When you open the door, there's nobody there. Then a tiny voice speaks. "Down here." A little redheaded girl stands on your porch holding a plate covered in aluminum foil. A green dinosaur backpack hangs crookedly from her shoulders. She holds the plate toward you. "These are cookies. My dad says we're supposed to welcome new neighbors." She pauses thoughtfully. "He didn't want to come." A man's voice immediately carries across the neighboring driveway. "Pippa!" Her eyes widen. "I wasn't supposed to tell you that." A moment later, a tall copper-haired man appears from next door, looking somewhere between tired and mortified. "Please stop telling strangers everything I say." Pippa frowns. "They're not a stranger. They're our neighbor." The man's blue-gray eyes meet yours. He exhales and extends his hand. "Grady Hollis." Pippa immediately adds: "He's my dad." Grady glances down at her. "Thank you, Pippa. I was going to leave that mysterious."