Page 91 of Sweet Thing

I studied his costume. Rebels’ jersey, one fist strapped with a bloodied bandage, backpack with a creepy baby doll peeking out over his shoulder.

“Are you … Lars?”

He grinned. “Lars at Da Club! Do you think he’ll punch me?”

“We can only hope.” My family were so weird.

He spotted my dad who was chatting with one of Rosie’s dads, Cade Burnett, who was dressed as a “cereal killer”—a box of Cheerios wielding a plastic machete. “What’s my brother come as?”

“French Kiss?” At his blank look, I tried to explain. “He says it’s ‘a concept piece’ where he’s a French mime but with the makeup style of some ancient band called Kiss?”

Jason shook his head. “Never simple, that guy.”

I finally made my way to the menagerie where Mabel was the star attraction. On seeing me, she clutched the bars of the playpen and pulled herself into a sitting position.

“Hey, Moo-Belle, you having fun?”

She smiled, a big gummy grin that lifted my heart. Someone hunkered beside me, bringing with him his intoxicating scent.

“How’s my girl?” He was looking at me when he said that, and feeling flustered, I passed over it.

“Moo-Belle’s fine. And you look kind of ridiculous.”

“I look amazing, and you know it.” He leaned in and scooped up Mabel. “And you’re the sexiest Zom-bee here,” he murmured to me on his way back upright.

“Lars.”

“You gotta learn to control that blush, sweet thing.”

“Stop. It.”

“Uh, make me.” Said with a sexy rumble I felt all the way to my toes. He seemed lighter in spirit, almost playful.

I changed the subject quickly, which I was becoming very adept at. “Did you see my uncle Jason’s costume?”

“I’ve apparently achieved some sort of pop culture nirvana.”

“People keep asking me why you showed up at the club. Of course the baby-in-tow aspect is making waves.”

“Mabel and I had to pick up our third musketeer.”

That made me feel warm. I had to get away because I was going to make a fool of myself. Before I could, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

My father stood behind me. From his expression I didn’t think he had heard anything, but I was suddenly acutely aware of my reckless behavior.

“So, Twinkle, we were wondering if you’d play a few songs for the kids.” He held up my guitar, his expression hopeful.

“I don’t know, Dad. There are an awful lot of people here.”

“It was Lars’s idea. Tell her she’d be great, man.”

Lars’s idea? My boss cocked his head, his ear to Mabel’s mouth. “Moo-Belle says you have the sweetest voice.” His eyebrows drew together in concentration. “She wants to hear something about her people.” A pause to get clarification. “The cows.”

I should not have felt this giddy. “Mabel’s pretty chatty for a seven-month-old.”

“Seven and a half. And she’s up for Mensa candidacy.”

“You’ll do it?” My dad grinned, clueless to the undertones between Lars and me.

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