Page 55 of One Big Little Secret

I’m a little relieved.

“Woman, it’s Friday, and you’re not scheduled to work weekends.” There’s a certain edge to his voice, suggesting he’s back to talking through his teeth. “I’m not a total monster. If I say punch out early and your weekend starts now, act like it.”

I purse my lips, annoyed that he’s still on this nice guy thing even while he’s bossing me around.

“I don’t want to lose my place. Really and truly. I’d like to wrap this up so I don’t have to think about it over the weekend.”

For a second, I think he’s about to march over and shut my computer off, then drag me up to the rooftop with him.

“Suit yourself. I tried.” He turns to go before the drawings pinned up next to my desk catch his eye. “More of Arlo’s talent, huh? He’s a regular Picasso.”

I snort.

The way he saystalentsounds a little like he’s accusing my son of a felony.

“He’s prolific,” I say. “I know I should watch out. I might have a kid bound for art school on my hands and I’ll have to support him until he’s thirty.”

“As long as he doesn’t flunk out and take over half of Europe.” He pauses and puts his hands up. “Sorry. Bad joke. I know your boy wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

For a second, it looks like he might stop scowling after his very dumb history joke.

But then he notices the detail on the pages. The guy in the suit sporting dragon’s horns and a tail, towering over several other frowny stick figures. Arlo even added a puff of fire coming out of his mouth.

That wouldn’t be so bad if the stick figure closest to him wasn’t labeled ‘Mommy.’

Arlo definitely hasn’t mastered subtlety yet.

Patton’s face darkens.

Any hope for him stomping off disappears and so does my composure.

“That’s not—um, I mean, I didn’t put it up to poke fun. It’s not meant to be offensive…”

God, I’m cooked.

I pin my lips together, lacing my hands at my waist, doing my utmost best not to burst into anxious laughter.

“Very unprofessional, Salem Hopper,” he finally says.

And I lose it.

Not just a little bit, either.

Not the delicate lady-laughs I bet he’s used to hearing from his colleagues and friends and even dates.

This is ugly donkey laughter that makes my face hurt.

Stop, stop.

Of all the things to laugh at, this is so not the one. But the mixed shock and horror curdling his face is too much to take without dying.

“Arlo’s shameless when he gets stuck on something. I’m sorry he doesn’t like you much,” I manage, unremorsefully pinning the blame on my son, though I was the one who hung these pictures up.

“Don’t apologize. The feeling’s mutual,” he growls.

I splutter to a halt.

Ouch.

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