Page 19 of A Not So Merry Rescue
“Uh, I’m an author.”
My hand halts with oil in the teaspoon poised above the mixing bowl. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s cool. Are your books ‘BookTok famous’?”
She giggles, the sound incongruent with what I’ve learned about her. “Didn’t peg you for a guy on BookTok. Are you?”
“No, but my sister and my niece are all over that shit. Big readers. What’s your pen name? Maybe they’ve read you?”
“How old is your niece?”
“Thirteen going on thirty.”
She laughs again, and tension rolls off her shoulders. Good. She needs to relax. “Like the movie?”
“She wishes.” I hand over the can of cooking spray and a foil tin. “Spray this for me. Please,” I tack on, not wanting to sound rude or disturb this little slice of peace we’ve got going on. Her eyes widen, but I give her no choice but to take the spray and lay the tin across her lap. “She’d like to skip high school at the least and go directly to college.”
“What’s her rush? Adulting isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” With shaky fingers, she removes the cap, setting it beside her thigh.
“I tell her that multiple times a week. Though if I had my way, she’d still be little enough for me to cuddle against my chest or ride on my shoulders.”
“They grow up fast.”
“Do you have nieces or nephews?”
“Two nephews. My sister’s kids. They’re three and six.”
“Clem’s kids she mentioned on the phone earlier?” She seems startled by my comment, her hackles rising. I can’t help if I pay attention to details. Especially about strangers I want to know better.
“Right. You spoke to her. Yes, her underlings.”
“Is she older or younger?”
“Older, ugh. As if making her way out of the womb ten minutes before me gives her ‘older sister’ status.”
“Ah, twins. Is it only the two of you?” I grab the wooden spoon from the utensil caddy and offer it to Willa. She grunts her objection, so I mix the wet and dry ingredients.
“Fortunately, yes. You?”
“The youngest of four. Two sisters, one brother. He’s got fifteen months on me, but you’d think it was fifteen years.”
“Four kids is . . . a lot.” A shudder passes through her, not quite as big as the few earlier. “Do the others have children?”
I test the batter for lumps, having lost count of strokes. Nana’sway is far superior to counting.
“No, just Shania. For now. Heidi got married two years ago, and Mom’s itching for her to be knocked up. Dax is the ultimate bachelor.”
“Unlike you.”
I frown, not understanding how she’s deduced the information in such a short amount of time. Or at all. “Unlike me how?” After pouring the batter into the tin, I slip them into the preheated oven, setting a timer. I like them a little undercooked, so I always shave off a few minutes per the recipe.
“You’re very un-bachelor-like.”
“How so?” I lean back against the counter opposite her, arms folded across my chest. It doesn’t escape my notice how the movement draws her eyes.
“Your place is spic and span. Not a typical bachelor pad. Even the way you stacked the dirty dishes in the sink is neat.” She waves to the area next to me.
