Page 50 of A Little Twist

Owen keeps rolling his shoulder and telling her to get off him, and I’m not sure Fortnight is the best game for a four-year-old to watch.

“Let’s get the chlorine out of your hair, Pink!” I call brightly.

“Noo!” She falls back on the couch with a loud wail. “I’m helping Bubba kill the bad guys.”

“No, you’re not!” Owen snaps. “Stop calling me Bubba and go wash your hair!”

His response only makes her dig in her heels harder. Her little back arches off the couch, and I know two things—she’s tired, and she’s hungry. I also remember what Adam said about not crossing the pink cyclone.

Chewing my lip, I don’t want to seem like I can’t handle Alex’s daughter, even when she’s being a pill. Looking around, my eyes land on Piglet.

“I think all that shooting scares Piglet.” My head tilts to the side, and I lift the stuffed pig, stroking his head. “It’s okay, Piglet, I’ll take you upstairs so you don’t have to be alone.”

Pinky stills on the couch, her little face turning serious as she watches me cradling her bestie.

I lay it on thick. “You’re a good little pig, you know? I’ll let you use my special shampoo and conditioner to get the chlorine out of your fur. And maybe we can paint your toenails when we’re done.”

She’s off the couch in a jump. “Piglet doesn’t have toenails! He can’t wear polish!”

“Huh.” Twisting my lips, I examine his stuffed hooves. “That’s too bad. I was in the mood to give someone a pedicure.”

Sliding her little hand in my arm, she reassures me. “It’s okay. You can give me a pedicure!”

Narrowing my eyes, I pretend to consider this alternative. “You’ll have to wash your hair first, and we can’t take too long because Uncle Adam is making a delicious dinner.”

She bypasses me, running up the stairs faster than I can catch her. “I’ll be so fast!”

“Let me help you rinse your hair!” I climb the stairs after her feeling pretty good about my mastery of preschooler manipulation.

When we return to the kitchen, a gorgeous platter of snapped green beans, yellow squash, and grilled tomatoes sits beside grilled chicken breasts and crescent rolls in the middle of the table. Pinky’s toes are painted with Essie’s Ballet Slipper, which is the palest shade of pink available—another thing I didn’t ask Alex about first.

I’ve got to do better.

The kids are ravenous after our day of activity. I’m pretty ravenous myself, and we don’t talk much during the meal. Alex and Adam, by contrast, chat nonstop about Drake the Douche’s plan to turn Eureka into the newest high-end resort location on the Carolina coast.

“We’re not even that close to the beach.” Adam’s tone is logical.

Alex is a bit fiercer. “He’s like every developer I’ve ever met. He can’t see a beautiful, undisturbed patch of nature without wanting to muck it up with hotels and parking lots.”

His brother laughs. “I had no idea you were such a conservationist.”

“I’m not a conservationist. I just don’t want him screwing with Eureka.”

“I think everyone will agree with that.”

The kids hop down and return to the living room, and I collect our plates, carrying them to the sink.

The men have fallen silent until Adam lifts his wine glass as if to toast. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, Bro, nice ass.”

Alex coughs on his sip, setting his glass down a little too hard. “What the fuck?”

“Language, please.” Adam glances over his shoulder to where the kids aren’t listening, barely containing his laughter.

My eyes widen, and I turn to the sink fast, rinsing the plates and trying not to snort.

“It’s all good,” Adam continues. “I don’t think they heard you.”

“Why did you say that to me?” Alex actually looks over his shoulder and down his back, and I can’t hold back.

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