Page 22 of One Big Little Secret

Well, no argument there.

I try not to laugh as he springs out the second he’s free from his car seat and hurries ahead of me to the front door. “I don’t wanna be stuck with Mrs. Gabbard, Mommy. I wanna go to work with you.”

“But work gets boring, sweetie. You were getting tired drawing, cooped up in the room.” I unlock the door and it clicks shut behind me. Like always, the small lobby is empty, and I usher Arlo to the elevator. We only live on the second floor, but I’ve taken him up and down too many staircases today.

“Ithought it was fun,” he insists matter-of-factly.

I boop his nose gently.

“A little too much fun, if you ask me. No more grabbing food and drinks without my permission. Definitely no more jumpingaround on furniture. Oh, and no more drawing people you know—unless you draw them the nice way.”

“Hmph. Grumpybutt wasn’tnice. And his hot chocolate was yucky.” He’s devastatingly honest in the way only kids can be.

“I don’t know how you’d know,” I say with a shake of the head, “seeing as you spilled it all over his shirt.”

“The other hot chocolate, Mommy. It tastes like twigs and mud.”

I laugh, wondering how old he’ll be when he changes his mind on coffee.

The elevator dings and we walk over to our unit.

The apartment is dim as usual. At first glance, you might think it’s okay.

It’s spacious enough for a bare-bones one-bedroom, at least, and the silhouettes of furniture look nicer than they really are.

But the instant you switch on the lights, you’ll see the ugly truth.

Everything I own is secondhand, beaten within an inch of its life.

“The other chocolate wasn’t sweet enough either. It was so… bleh!” Arlo rattles on about cocoa as he takes a running leap at the sofa. It bulges under his weight. He sticks out his tongue for emphasis.

“You mean bitter?”

“Yeah! Bitter.”

So was Mr. Rory, I think, shaking my head to dislodge the thought.

“Your tastes change as you grow up,” I explain. Especially the rich clientele The Cardinal wants to be serving soon.

One more reason we need that cocoa bar. Surely, someone might appreciate a little whipped cream or cane sugar to go with their exotically sourced ninety percent cocoa nibs.

“It was nice of him to get you a hot chocolate at all, even if you didn’t like it much,” I say, running out of adjectives.

There are only so many times I can say ‘nice’ when I’m describing Patton Rory without sounding like I’m mangling the word.

Arlo shakes his head until his dark hair falls across his face. He’s about due for a haircut again.

“I dunno. You thinkanyonehas fun with Mr. Grumpybutt around?” His bottom lip juts out.

Smiling, I sigh affectionately.

Then it’s time to get to work on dinner.

I open the cupboard and scrounge around for some boxed pasta and a jar of marinara sauce.

Poor boy,I think while I cook.He has no freaking clue he’s talking about his father. But let’s keep it that way.

If he ever finds out Mr. Grumpybutt, a man who clearly doesn’t like him, is his dad—

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