Page 6 of Merry Mayhem
“I like my school here. The teachers aren't too mean, and they have interesting classes. They do some good trips that aren't boring.” He takes a bite, chews, and then inhales through his nose before continuing. “The other kids are better than I thought. Not as awful as they could be.”
“High expectations, huh?” He quirks his brows up at me, and grins, still managing to keep his mouth closed as he chews his latest bite.
“You haven't been around kids in a long time, I think.”
That comment makes me study him. “What makes you say that?”
He shrugs. “The way you talk. Like we're both grownups. But I like it. Gretchen doesn't talk down to me either. She tells me I'm smart enough to make decisions, so I should have the information I need to make good ones.”
Oddly enough, even though I've only met Gretchen once, I can hear her voice saying that exactly in my mind. “That's a good thing. It means she trusts you. And that she'll help you.”
“Can we take her some pizza?” His plate is empty and there's a final slice on the platter between us. He looks at it, and then at me. “I don't need to eat that piece.”
“Does Gretchen like pepperoni?” I'm actually curious. In those few minutes last night, she didn't strike me as someone who ate much pepperoni.
Gavin shakes his head. “No. She only gets it for me. What she really likes is ham and pineapple. It's her absolute favorite.”
“Then let's do this. You eat this last piece if you want it, and we'll order a small one just for Gretchen. Sound good?”
His lips spread in a wide smile, and I force down the chuckle threatening to burst free at how purely happy this kid looks. Like I've promised him the world with this last slice of pizza. Or maybe it's being able to give his sister something she'll enjoy just as much.
6
GRETCHEN
I pressdown on the folded paper, then line the scissors up, letting the Christmas muse guide the pattern I create. My eyes dart to the clock, checking the time again. A few more minutes before eight o'clock. And what will I do if they aren't here on time?
The sound of a car door shutting outside sends relief swirling through me. Gavin's footsteps are obvious, and I can easily envision the way he's racing up the sidewalk to the small porch. Right on time, Gavin opens the door and runs inside.
“I made it.” He grins at me, waving. “Eight o'clock, on the dot.”
He does a wiggly little dance and then gives me two thumbs up.
I laugh at the sight. “Yes, you did. Just like you promised. Seems like you had fun.”
“We did. But we worked so hard, we had to eat. Don't worry, though, we brought you food this time.”
My eyes dart to the open door, where Cooke's tall form is standing on the porch. A pizza box is held in front of him, and it strikes me this is like his form of an olive branch.
“So he's tricked you into feeding him two nights in a row?” I ask, standing up from the chair. My back aches and I stretch my arms up over head, relishing the feel of my vertebrae popping back into alignment. “He's crafty, this one. Don't let him fool you. I feed him every day.”
A flash of teeth, there and gone so fast I'm not sure if it was a real smile or imagined, and then Cooke holds the box out to Gavin. “You should heat this up for your sister. Make sure it's warm.”
“Good idea,” says my brother. “She doesn't like cold pizza.”
He takes the box, and then rushes over to me, giving me a quick one-armed hug before heading into the kitchen. Cooke still waits on the porch so I cross over to the open door.
“Thank you for getting him home on time.” I look back over my shoulder, to where I can hear Gavin pushing buttons. “And for getting him pizza. You've made him pretty happy.”
When I look back at the man on my porch, his eyes have a faraway look before they land on me. There's something bleak in that look and then it's gone. Now, though, his intense focus is all directed at me, and I'm instantly aware of the sloppy bun my hair is in and the old sweatshirt I pulled on when I got home from work. It's a comfy, cozy look made for a night at home. Not for being seen by a man I don't even really know.
“He was pretty intent on making sure we brought home something you would love.”
His words, said in the low, growly voice that makes my stomach flip, are measured and careful, but seem to linger over that last word.
Love.
Then he surprises me with a quirk of his lips that's almost a smile. “Who could've guessed you'd be the type of person to put pineapple on pizza.”
