Page 353 of Branded
“No, Mom,” Ethan said, his butter-covered hands coming over mine and grabbing out a huge handful of sugar and cinnamon mixture from the bowl I’d been put in charge of. “Nonna JoJo says you can’t have too much cinnamon and sugar.”
“Except Nonna JoJo doesn’t have to deal with a sugared-up five-year-old,” Cas whispered, making me giggle, even as he scooped his hand into the bowl, and since it was significantly larger than Ethan’s, it provided significantly more sugar to spread onto the dough that had been buttered by Ethan.
With Ethan’s bare hands.
Because, apparently, cinnamon rolls tasted better when made with bare hands.
This was a statement Ethan could get behind.
My kid loved getting messy.
And since Nonna JoJo—aka Joanne—was clearly the cinnamon roll expert, and thus, all things cinnamon, sugar, butter, yeast, or dough-related deferred to her.
But it was something that I had embraced as well, and although I was covered in flour and sugar and butter and cinnamon, I was having the best time.
Partly because I was hanging with Ethan and Cas and making something together, but also because Cas’s family was like him. Nice and kind and thoughtful and Joanne hadn’t even blinked when Ethan had given her a hug and had gotten butter on her jeans. For that matter, neither had Cas’s dad—also Luca, though he actually went by Luca (or as he’d advised Ethan to call him, Ace)—when Ethan had high-fived him and he’d ended up with a glob of butter on his pale green polo.
Margot and Sam and Kathy had joined in on the mess just as eagerly, each assigned a job they’d clearly done for years and each gentle and sweet and patient as they’d showed Ethan how to do their tasks, not seeming to mind that a five-year-old was making a mess of it.
They were laid back expert cinnamon roll makers who didn’t care that the butter was going to leave grease stains on their clothes or that the rolls were uneven and maybe a bit lumpy or that?—
Cas kissed the hinge of my jaw, murmured, “Spread the sugar, gorgeous.”
It was hard to concentrate with his big, warm body pressed to mine, even harder to concentrate with Ethan making a mess. But, frankly, all of that was not even remotely as challenging as trying to concentrate when his siblings were watching me and Cas like we were scientific experiments, while also being extremely funny and cool and welcoming to Ethan.
And to me.
Asking me about school—and commiserating how hard it was to work and study at the same time. Talking to Ethan about his interests—which, unfortunately for me, now included breaking down every single trap that Kevin from Home Alone had laid out for the robbers. The movie had given him ideas—and sweet baby Jesus, that was terrifying.
Ideas that were only slightly less terrifying than the curious looks that had greeted me when Cas and I had strode through the doorway that led into the kitchen, holding hands.
I’d apologized and fussed over Ethan—tried to make it clear that he didn’t spend time awake without me and I didn’t want Cas’s parents to think I neglected my kid.
A worry that had lasted approximately ten seconds.
Because then Joanne was wrapping me in a tight hug—a Mom hug—and then she’d pulled back, studied me closely. “Look at those dark circles you both have.” A shake of her head. “You should have had us come earlier. We could have watched Ethan while you both got more rest.” Another squeeze. “Feel free to pop up for a nap later. I know how hard it is trying to do everything.”
I figured, with four kids and a job, that Joanne probably did know.
“Now,” she’d said, drawing me further into the kitchen. “Cas has told us next to nothing about you and Ethan”—a glare at her son—“which means that I need to know everything.”
Said not in a scary, demanding way.
But rather, in a kind, friendly, maternal way.
And the front I’d pulled up in Cas’s bedroom—about there being nothing to worry about because we loved each other—had clicked into place. Only it wasn’t a front, hadn’t been me holding it together because he was clearly worried.
Not any longer.
Because one hug and a short conversation, and I’d known it would be the truth.
This was going to be okay.
We were going to be okay.
And bonus, it came with butter and sugar and cinnamon.
“So, what are you studying, darlin’?” Luca asked, sitting next to me.
