Page 52 of The Alien's Little Sister

Nah, you know what? Stacy isn’t that baby deer. She’s the rabbit. Not Thumper—Bunnicula. The psycho-mad vampire rabbit.

“Matt, maybe we should give them a moment,” Inara wisely advises.

And in the interests of my newfound promise to tone down the caveman ways, I inhale enough to fill a Macy’s parade of balloons, and force my gaze from the scene outside the window, to my woman.

Inara brightens with joy. “Youaretrying!”

“Oh, I so am,” I agree. “You don’t know how much I care about you.”

Her eyes go wide, and she pats me on the arm, placing her other hand on my ribs. “Oh, I do! This must be killing you. I’m so proud!”

“It is killing me,” I confirm.

Inara’s smile is soft. “Then perhaps it will help you to know that I can see today your concern for Stacy.”

I exhale and haul her into me, relieved. “Thank you. I really need you to know that’s where this is coming from.”

Her arms give me a squeeze. “I do, Matt.”

The front door opens, and I hear Stacy’s heels meet the floor louder than any 12-gauge shotgun. “Matthew,” she growls, my name sounding like it came out of the throat of a cat crammed into a crate at the vet’s office—all low and warningly and scary. “Christian wants to speak to you.”

And her tone speaks for her:YOU BE NICE OR I’M PUTTING SOAP IN YOUR COFFEES FOR LIFE.

I nuzzle into Inara’s shoulder and sigh raggedly.

Inara seems extra pleased. She squeezes me again and kisses the side of my head. “You’re doing wonderfully well.”

At least I’m getting points for my restraint. I draw myself away from Inara’s comforting clavicle and turn to face Bunnicula’s boyfriend.

Norman/Ogden/Brandon/Adam/Lucius/Leonard/Silas still has the deer-in-headlights look, but I gotta admit, he’shere.In front of me and meeting my eyes. The kid’s nickname no longer fits, because it’s clear he’sgotballs.

I stare at him.

He flings his hand at me, nervous. “Mr. Shawnessy.”

With a look shot to Inara that says‘This is for you. See me trying? I’m behaving so damn good,’I take his hand and do not break it with a single squeeze. “Christian,” I say civilly enough.

Growling is civil, right?

Gaze panicked—but still meeting mine full on—he stutters, “I wanted to shake your hand, sir.”

“You’re doing it,” I say flatly.

Stacy makes a noise and Inara—traitor—slaps me on the top of my foot with her tail.

Christian glances over at her as if noticing her other-ness for the first time. “Cool costumes you’ve got here, Mr. Shawnessy,” the kid says.

“Thank you.” I offer this sincerely enough. Even if Inara is way beyond the abilities of any costume. It’s sort of like he’s complimenting my woman’s looks, which is polite manners I approve of.

I’m still not letting go of his hand.

Christian is starting to get (more) nervous about this.

“Let his hand go!” Stacy hisses.

“I can’t,” the boy croaks out.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Stacy intones, sounding like someone whose head will be doing a 180 unless they see an exorcist soon.

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