Page 84 of Not Just a Trick Play

I glare at him while taking comfort in his touch.

“You have nothing to worry about, Sweets. They already love you. Half the time more than I think they love me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

JAKE

Mom’s houseis in the midst of its customary holiday mayhem when we arrive.

Beatrice is perched on a step stool in the foyer, laser-focused on marrying a string of Christmas lights with a garland of autumn leaves and tacking them along the crown molding.

Yvonne hovers below her, gingerly holding the surplus jumble like it’s a snake ready to strike.

The moment she spots us, she springs to life. “Hey, baby brother,” she bellows, as if I’m a long-lost relative back from an Arctic expedition, not someone who only this morning was standing on her toilet seat swapping out a burnt-out bulb.

In one seamless motion, she wraps me in a hug, deftly offloading the tangled mess in my hands before pivoting to loop her arm through Amelia’s, pulling her inside with whispers of ribbed candy cane vibrators. I don’t want to know.

Just as I’m about to follow, Beatrice’s hand clamps around my collar like I’m a dog about to bolt. “Not so fast. You’re not ditching me to handle this solo. Brady already bailed, sticking me with Yvonne. Your turn to step up.”

“Can’t you recruit another minion from your little army?” I protest.

“Nah. I’ve left the rest of the insurgents at plotting world domination. They’ve been calling me Lady Tremaine just because I made them clean their rooms.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re their real mom. Shouldn’t that make you, like, Maleficent-level scary?”

She sighs dramatically. “Oh, please. I wish I had a dragon. All I’ve got is a Dyson and zero respect.”

I snicker. “No rest for the wicked.”

“Eh, I’ll take it. Villains get more screen time. Plus, better wardrobes.”

Once she’s sure I’m not about to run, she parks her hands on her hips. “Ha. Seems like you’ve been up to your own brand of mischief, baby brother.” She slides a glance over at the passageway through which Amelia and Yvonne have vanished.

Her tone stops me, and I look at her, confused. She fishes her phone out of her back pocket and waves it around before pulling up an app. “A couple of months ago, you were online like an ad for BDSM ‘R’ US, and now you’re allLady and the Tramp.”

She shoves the screen in my face. It’s a photo of me with Amelia poised over a punchbowl, our heads nearly touching. Our yellow bendy straws resemble spaghetti. The only thing missing is a strawberry to play the meatball.

“I swear, you just need a meatball.” Beatrice mirrors my thoughts exactly. Fifteen years apart and here we are, twinning.

I roll my eyes, nudging the device away. “Has anyone pointed out that you may be overdosing on cartoons?”

“Ya think?” She grimaces in disgust. “Seriously, the number of brain cells I have sacrificed to the church of Disney.” She presses her palms together and looks heavenward. “And those songs? Pure sorcery. They stick in your head like gum on your shoe. Forever.”

She drops her angelic pose and turns back to me. “So, tell me, what’s the deal? Are you two a thing now?”

“Keep it down!” I hiss, glancing around.

Once I’m sure no one’s in earshot, I let a conspiratorial grin spread across my lips. “Amelia’s convinced Yvonne’s gonna be pissed and go full Hulk when she finds out. Honestly, I’d rather be the one dodging the green rage monster. It’s basically cardio at this point.”

“She’ll be pissed regardless.” Beatrice waves off the concern with a flick of her wrist. Suddenly, she’s on the move, hopping down from her perch and tugging me along. “Come on, rip off the Band-Aid. Confession is good for the soul.”

We enter right as Carla and Rick are juggling dishes with tonight’s dinner.

“Babe, can you grab the cheese? We’re out of hands here,” he calls.

“Sure thing,” Beatrice responds, disappearing into the kitchen.

The early birds are already at the dining table. I head over to Mom, drop a kiss on her cheek, then settle into a spot at the end, beside Amelia. Across from her, Yvonne’s chatting away. And dinner? Spaghetti, naturally.

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