Page 59 of The Perfect Snipe

Stella doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she grabs the cupcake and shoves the whole thing into her mouth. Her cheeks puff out, and frosting oozes from between her lips. When she tries to speak, it’s a garbled mess of sounds.

I take a bite of my own cupcake, then lean forward, tilting my head and blinking a few times.

She rolls her eyes and swallows hard, her throat working overtime. Finally, she turns to her dad. “I don't want to do dance anymore, Dad. I hate it.”

Leo's eyes widen, his jaw going slack. He looks like someone just told him hockey players are about to go on strike again. “Why didn't you say something sooner?”

Her gaze drops to the floor, her shoulders hunching again. “Because you always talk about how much Mom loved watching me dance. I didn't want to make you sad.”

Leo's face crumples faster than a paper bag in a rainstorm. He reaches out, pulling his daughter into a hug. “I'm so sorry. I never meant to make you feel that way. Your mom . . . she would want you to be happy, not suffering through something you hate just to make me feel better.”

I take another bite of my cupcake, trying to give them some privacy while still being present. After all, I promised her we’d do this together.

The rich red velvet flavor explodes on my tongue, and I have to bite back a moan. Dios mío. This is better than sex.

Well, most sex.

Leo brushes Stella’s dark brown hair back behind her ears. “You don't have to do anything you don't want to, okay? We'll find something else you enjoy. Maybe that CrossFit class you like so much?”

Her face lights up like Times Square on New Year's Eve. “Really?”

He nods, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I mean it. I'm sorry I didn't notice how unhappy you were. I'll do better. I promise.”

As I watch their interaction, a warmth spreads through my chest, like I've just downed a shot of good whiskey. It's moments like these that make me feel truly needed, truly part of this family. Without me, who knows how long it might have taken for Stella to speak up?

“Now how about you go watch TV and let me talk to Cat.”

Her head whips back and forth between us, an asymmetrical smirk spreading across her face. “Ooh, are you finally going to ask Cat on a date?”

I nearly choke on my cupcake, coughing and sputtering. Leo's face turns an impressive shade of red, like a lobster left too long in the pot.

“Stella!” we both sputter in unison.

She winks as she hops off her chair, skipping out of the kitchen.

The room falls into an awkward silence, the kind that makes you hyper-aware of every little sound—like the clock ticking on the wall or the hum of the refrigerator. I take another bite of the cupcake, chewing slowly to avoid having to speak first. Coward's way out, I know, but sue me.

Leo clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck—a nervous habit I've come to recognize. “About that talk with your grandmother . . . She agreed to look at some brochures, maybe even visit a few places.”

“Holy shit! How the hell did you manage that?”

“We made a deal. She agreed to consider assisted living if I . . .” He trails off, glancing around the room.

“If you what?” My voice comes out a bit scratchy for some reason.

He takes a deep breath in, then lets it out as he finally looks at me. “Stella’s not wrong. I’d like to take you on a date. If you want to, that is.”

My heart does a weird little flip in my chest and I bite my bottom lip, completely caught off guard by his admission. But the momentary elation dies. I wipe my nose, which is suddenly itchy and my ears heated. “Was that the deal? You had to ask me out?”

He blinks a few times, his eyes downcast. “Yes and no. She . . . it was to admit my feelings. And part of that is me wanting to take you out. I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget I—”

I start coughing, the itchiness from my nose suddenly spreading to my throat, as if I swallowed a cactus. And it’s getting worse. Saliva floods my mouth and I have to concentrate on swallowing.

Leo purses his lips as he reaches over and places a hand on mine. “What's wrong?”

I open my mouth to speak, but the words come out garbled and slurred. “I don' know. My thongue feelth funny.”

His eyes widen, his face draining of color as he leans closer. “Fuck, your lips are swelling. What are you allergic to?”

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