Page 7 of The Bookworm Who Stole Christmas
“What are you saying about me?” Dad asks as he walks into the room, his eyes lighting up when he sees Mom.
Bradley Grayson is a powerhouse of a man with a muscular build, most of his hair still, even if it’s a little more gray than dark, and crinkles around his eyes from laughing so much. He’s like me—a jokester. The pranks we play on each other can get a little out of hand at times, but that’s what makes them so great.
“Just saying you’re a troublemaker, and it’s where your son got it from.” Mom beams at Dad.
“Wha—no, me?” Dad stutters, knowing it’s true but denying it at all costs.
“Yes,you, dear,” Mom snorts while patting his chest. Turning back to me, she declares, “Right, so operation de-grump the bookworm is a go.”
“That’s a terrible name, Mom,” I groan, face-palming, and Amelia agrees. “You couldn’t have come up with something better?”
Mom arches a perfectly plucked gray eyebrow at us. “Please, go right ahead if you have any better ideas.”
Amelia and I look at each other. “Operation de-grump the bookworm it is,” we both grumble in unison.
“Glad you see it my way,” Mom says excitedly, clapping her hands together. “Now, we need to start small and work our way up so she doesn’t know what we’re up to.”
“We?” I ask as I sit down at the table, stretching out my legs in front of me and crossing my arms over my chest.
“You didn’t think I wouldn’t get involved, did you?”
“What is it with the women in this house?” I grumble as I pinch the bridge of my nose in exasperation. Swiping a hand down my face, I say, “The pair of you are going to be the death of me, you know that, right?”
Mom rolls her eyes. “Oh, stop being so dramatic, Parker.”
“Wonder where I get that from?” I mumble under my breath.
A swift slap to my thigh tells me she heard it and isn’t happy. I rub the spot where she hit me. “Ow,” I mouth to no one in particular.
Amelia decides to pipe up, a smirk on her face, “Completely deserved if you ask me.”
“You’re supposed to be on my side,” I exclaim before crying out in faux upset, a hand to my forehead. “It’s like you hate me.”
Mom snaps her fingers to get our attention. “You two are getting off topic.”
I stop fake crying at my daughter and look over at my mom. “Sorry, you were saying?” I ask, wanting to know what the plan is.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do.”
Chapter Five
MADDIE
“Meow,” Arty greets as I walk through the door.
Bending down, I rub behind his ears, and his purr grows louder. “Hi, boy.”
I head into the kitchen, Arty hot on my heels. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” I laugh as I grab his food from the cupboard and pour it into his bowl. “You’re an absolute menace, my boy. Anyone ever tell you that?” I ask. He looks at me as if to say, “Yeah, you every day, Mom.”
I’ve been tripped up and headbutted three times since I arrived home—his way of letting me know he wants his food.
Once I’ve set his meal down, his purring goes from loud to muted as he eats. I walk to the fridge and take out the ingredients for tonight’s dinner. It’s nothing fancy since I’m not a huge cook, and to be honest, after being on my feet all day, I can’t be bothered. So I quickly rustle up a chicken Caesar salad.
I sit down at the small dining table, which seats two people, and begin eating. I’ve lived in this tiny apartment since I moved here. The rent’s cheap, probably because it’sso run down in places—leaky faucet, shower that only works when it wants to, and a pervy neighbor who loves to pretend he’s just watering his plants… in the nude. But it’s home. It’s the one place where I’ve been able to set down roots and just breathe.
The shock of my life came the day a private investigator found me dossing around in New York City. I worked in a diner part-time and lived in a rat-infested apartment. The guy showed up, dropped papers in my lap and told me to get in contact with a ‘Mr. Brown.’ Couldn’t have sounded more made up if they’d tried. After going to his office, more out of curiosity than anything, that’s where I found out I had a grandmother I knew nothing about.
She was my mom's mom, apparently. I didn’t ask for the full details; in all honesty, I didn’t care. But I did feel bad for a woman who was trying to do right by me. Which is why, when I took one look at the shop she’d left me, I couldn’t sell it. I didn’twantto sell it.
