Page 13 of One Big Little Secret

I turn, just in time to see little hands reaching onto a table for one of the breakfast pastries I mentioned.

A kid. Stuffing his face like a greedy little chipmunk. And the second he locks eyes with me, he runs, heading for the sofa and spilling crumbs everywhere as the pastry falls apart.

There goes my leather sofa.

Fuck, what a way to start the morning. Who let a kid go wild in here before we have customers?

“Hey, get back over here!” I shout, holding in some other choice words that aren’t child friendly.

He stops and looks at me with sharp blue eyes that remind me of my nephew, Colton. Except Colt is well-behaved and hedoesn’twedge crumbs in every nook and cranny of a twenty-thousand-dollar sectional.

“I don’t know you!” he says.

“Yeah, I know you don’t. But you still need to get off the sofa, little man.”

Wrong words, apparently.

He scowls at me like that pastry falling apart in his hands is suddenly made of mud. “I’m not little. I’m a big boy.”

“Fine. Whatever. I hear big boys don’t bomb other people’s furniture with crumbs,” I tell him, hoping it sinks in.

For a second, I think he’ll smear what’s left of that thing all over it just to piss me off. Then he just wrinkles his nose and starts making a half-assed attempt to wipe them off.

“There. All better, mister!”

“Not quite. Where’s your mother?” I look around, but there’s no sign of parents. Who lets their kid raise bedlam in a place like this? “You need to get down.”

“No! My mommy says never go anywhere with a stranger.”

“Of all the lessons he remembers…” I mutter. “What’s your name, kid?”

“I’m not supposed to tell strangers. I’m not gonna tell you!”

“Just—please, get off the sofa. That’s all I’m asking. I’ll give you another pastry if you do.” Bribery. That’s one thing I’ve learned from watching Archer raise Colt practically alone. It works when you use it just right.

Unfortunately, I don’t have my older brother’s dad experience.

The boy folds his arms and glares at me. “I wanted hot cocoa but it tastes like crap.”

Out of habit, I look at the coffee bar. It’s been destroyed.

Coffee pools across the counter. A couple overturned paper cups and napkins are soaking up the mess as the rest drips on the floor.

That means the little hellraiser must’ve drank some coffee.

This morning just keeps getting better.

“Whereareyour parents?” I ask again, grabbing a gob of tissues and dipping them into the puddles of coffee, which instantly bleeds through to my hands.

Fuck.

Really, I should call someone, but by the time a cleaner shows up, I’ll already have met the manager. The last thing I need is for them to see this chaos and panic, wondering what kind of clown show they’ve signed on to.

“My mom’s here,” the kid says, starting to bounce on the sofa again.

“Stop bouncing, for God’s sake.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. Damn, would it be so bad if I picked this munchkin up and restrained him?

I’m considering it until a woman starts yelling.

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