Page 56 of Rulebreaker
His arms tighten around me, and I lose myself in him–and how safe I feel–as I drift off to sleep.
NINETEEN
Atlas
“I don’t thinkthat looks right,” Frankie says, her head tilted to the side, pigtails that Lily secured before she had to head out for another day of meetings bobbing to the side.
It’s so damned cute, and the pang of missing Lily so intense, that it takes me a minute to realize what’s happening in the pan in front of us.
As in, it takes me a moment to see that it’s smoking.
“Shit,” I mutter, knowing there’s going to be hell to pay when Frankie–as she inevitably will–repeats the curse at the most inopportune time.
Pushing Briar’s future reaming from my mind, I sweep the pan from the stove and dump the blackened grilled cheese sandwich in the trash.
“You told me grilled cheeses were your specialty,” Frankie says, accusation heavy in the words.
So heavy, that I freeze in my procurement of the loaf of bread–and the production of grilled cheese round two–and turn back to face her. She’s standing on the special stool Briar has for her, so she can help in the kitchen safely, but her shoulders are slumped, chin hanging toward her chest.
I hesitate, considering my options.
Go back to grilled cheesing and coax what’s bothering her from the depths of stubbornness she inherited from Briar and then perfected of her own accord…
Or go with my instincts…
Instincts that haven’t failed me yet.
They brought me my family, a successful business, and–I smile slightly–a pop star with her own stubborn streak…one so deeply seated that she makes Frankie and Briar seem like pushovers.
So, yeah. I go with my instincts.
I drop the bread to the counter then move back to the stove, turning the knob and shutting off the gas.
Frankie looks up at me, eyes filled with confusion, mouth opening…
Before she can say anything, I scoop her off the stool, toss her over my shoulder, and move right out of the kitchen and onto the back deck.
It’s afternoon, the sun high in the sky, which is a bright blue and completely cloudless. A beautiful sunny SoCal day. But the gorgeous weather has absolutely no effect on my niece, or her unsettled mood.
“Let me go, Uncle Atlas,” she grunts, kicking her legs out and struggling against my hold.
But I may as well be trying to restrain a doll.
I close my arms around her, shift her so I’m carefully cradling her against my chest, and sink down onto the nearest chair.
“Uncle Atlas,” she protests as I plunk her on my knee.
“Can it, tater tot,” I order, albeit gently. “And tell me what’s upset you.”
Her nose wrinkles and she looks away, tiny, reed-like body stiff, chin lifting, shoulders straight.
Stubborn.
Luckily, I’m good with stubborn women.
I give her a minute to sit in that mulish pique then tug one of those pigtails. “What does your mommy always say about me, peanut?”
A sigh, that chin lifting further.
