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I shot some whipped cream at her, and she squealed. “Tell me.”
Her hands formed a pathetic wall between us. “Put that down!”
I sprayed a puff between her cracked fingers.
“Stop!” she cried, scooting her chair back. “I surrender!”
I smiled and set the can back down beside the syrup.
Otis appeared a moment later to lick up the spray that wasn’t on Maeve’s shirt and arms.
“I can’t believe you did that,” she said, rinsing the whipped cream off her hands in the sink and wiping her top with a paper towel. “You’re crazy.”
“So,” I said, satisfied the mood had been sufficiently lifted. “When do I get to meet the donors?”
