Page 22 of Not Just a Trick Play

Mom’s already halfway to the kitchen. “Nope, give Jake a hand with the decorations,” she calls over her shoulder.

Boom. Just like that, it’s the Amelia-and-Jake show. I finish looping the cloth around the light fixture and go back to the box of ornaments. I watch as she places the Barbie mobile on top of the piano and pats in gingerly, then turns her attention to the mounted photos.

This girl. How the hell did she turn up here?

I lean against the brick wall, a foot propped behind me, making no secret of my perusal. Not that I don’t believe in fate—the movieSerendipityis practically the family gospel. I doubt Amelia’s a stalker. LunaTic can do tricks, but I know from walking her that “pee-on-command” isn’t one of them. The little brat’s basically Yvonne’s double.

My gaze stays locked on Amelia. She’s tiny. I already knew that, but with her standing so close, it’s especially pronounced. There’s an understated sexiness to her. Her British accent is so proper and polished that I can’t help but wonder what shesounds like when she comes? And underneath her reserved exterior, a quick wit lies in wait, surprising me every time it surfaces.

She catches me staring. “What?”

“Nothing.”

She purses her lips and resumes her perusal of the photos. I scoop a glob of gooey slime out of its bucket and plop it into a bowl. Mom’ll add candies to it right before the trick-or-treaters arrive.

“Goodness, there are more of you?” Amelia’s zeroed in on a picture that must have been taken when I was around five. Carla sports a wide metallic grin. Heidi and Helena still dressed all matchy-matchy in those days. Beatrice stands between the twins, posing with her chin tipped up. Dad has one hand on my shoulder, while my focus is on the kid-size football I’m clutching. His other arm circles Mom, who’s beaming, even as she grips a scowling Yvonne tight.

“Baby, there’s only one Jake Cunningham,” I declare with a smirk.

Amelia shakes her head at me. Admittedly, Team Cunningham is quite the crew, but as far as I’m concerned, my sisters are part of the scenery; the angels and devils on my shoulders, switching places, occasionally weighing me down on one side or the other. “Yep. Beatrice and Heidi aren’t here, but Helena’s around somewhere.”

“So six in total?”

“My folks,” I reply with a wink, “they liked each other. A lot.”

“Were handcuffs involved there as well?” She gives me a sidelong glance.

Such snark. I love it. I study Amelia some more before changing the subject, dropping the teasing from my voice. “Did you figure things out with the Airbnb? Find somewhere else to stay?”

Slowly, she turns to me and nods. “Yes. I found a spot.”

“That’s great.”

She huffs. “Great? More like financially disastrous. Your prank’s costing me a fortune in hotel bills because there weren’t any cheap Airbnbs available for weeks.”

Damn it. Another spectacular blunder to add to my ever-growing list of screw-ups: Embarrassing the Titans, putting the Nurture NYC gala at risk, and now Amelia losing her apartment. Not that I have any reason to feel massive amounts of guilt here. It wasn’t my idea to go around handcuffing people to random beds.

But you agreed to it.

Fine. So maybe a bit of remorse is in order.

“I can help. Pay.”

She slow-blinks at me. Would she would have been more receptive to an offer of muffins? I rub the back of my neck, waiting for her to respond.

“You live with your mother.”

Not that.

Amelia arches a brow at me. “How old did you say you were again?”

She thinks I live here? She’s priceless. This house was my first major purchase after signing with the Titans. Second and third came the penthouse and my Ferrari 599 Pininfarina, with the remaining chunk of change nicely growing itself into a bigger pile. I think I can handle paying for a hotel for a while.

“What can I say? I’m a true millennial.” I dip my hands into my pockets, almost tempted to turn them inside out. My lips slide into a lazy smirk.

“Where would you get the money, anyway?” Her gaze darts in the direction of the kitchen for a split second. “You wouldn’t ask your mum for it, would you?” She all but hisses the question.

What the fuck? “I work,” I retort, choking back an amused huff. I bet she’s thinking I’m a porn star again. With a snort, I shake my head and head to the dining table. I plop into a chair and scoot forward, the drag of wooden legs screeching on the marble.

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