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Finally he managed to get out a scratchy, "Mister Anton is just fine."
She nodded and bestowed a very charming smile on him.
"What's that?" she asked me, pointing to the giant bottle of Patrón.
"Grownup stuff," I told her, assuming that would settle it.
"Can I try some?"
I made a face at her that made her giggle. "Are you a grownup?"
"Yep," she said quickly.
"Grownups are at least twenty-one years old. Are you twenty-one?" I asked pointedly.
"Yep," she quipped back, the brazen little liar.
"Uh uh," I said.
She nodded at the oven. "Can I have some of those when they're done?"
I shrugged. "I guess."
"Auntie Farrah said you don't like kids. Why don't you like kids?"
"Because they ask too many questions."
"Like what?"
"Exactly."
"Why else don't you like kids?"
"Because they're selfish and mean," just sort of slipped out.
Her eyes widened, watered a bit, and I saw that I'd taken the teasing too far.
"You think I'm selfish and mean?" she asked, voice tremulous, like the very idea might make her cry.
Dammit. "No." I actually meant it. "Not you. I can just remember . . . other kids . . . that were," I finished lamely.
"If you don't like kids, how come you bake me something nummy every time I come over?"
&
nbsp; I mulled that one over. I did. I literally baked every time she came over, no exceptions. What the hell was up with that?
"It's a coincidence," I told her. "I bake all the time." That was a lie, but she was eight.
If you couldn't lie to an eight-year-old, who could you lie to?
She beamed at me. "You like me. I knew it."
I curled my lip at her and she giggled. "You're alright," I allowed.
"I like you," she offered. "You're really pretty, and you smell nice."
Dammit. Damn Demi and her incorrigible, likable niece. "You're really pretty, too," I begrudgingly returned.
