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“Fine. Just keep it tidy. My ma will be back in the morning,” I replied, too weary to contemplate the terrible idea it was to have Joey Lynch in my house when he was clearly skeptical of my intentions toward his sister.
And rightly so…
Gibsie looked at me expectantly.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I told him. “You know where the kitchen is. I’m not fucking cooking for you.”
“I’m not used to gas.” Gibsie shrugged helplessly. “We have electric at home.”
“Your mother is a baker,” I snapped. “How do you not know how to work a bleeding stove?”
“And yours is a flashy fashion designer,” he shot back. “But I don’t see you prancing around the place in fur coats and Prada handbags.”
“You’re a baby, do you know that?” I growled. “You’re like an oversized infant I’ve been given custody of to care for.”
Stomping past him, I trudged downstairs to the kitchen.
“Get the pan out—and whatever it is you’re planning on making,” I ordered. “And I’m not cooking it for you,” I grumbled as I stamped over to the stove and switched on the gas. “You’re more than capable of doing it for yourself.”
“Let’s hope so,” Gibsie said, chuckling and shuffling toward me with his arms full of pork product and a tray of eggs.
“Think you can manage without burning the house down?” I quipped as I stepped away from the stove.
“Pretty sure,” Gibsie replied as he set to work, leaning precariously close to the naked flame.
I eyed him warily, unconvinced. “Don’t burn yourself.”
“Okay, Dad,” he mocked before asking, “Do you have scones?” Turning to face me, he added, “I’d love one of your mam’s scones with my tea.”
I shook my head and held my tongue, deciding to just let the crazy float over my head. “There might be a batch in the freezer. You’ll have to heat them up in the oven first.”
“I know that,” he scoffed.
“Do you?” I muttered under my breath.
He was a liability. A big dopey loyal-as-they-came liability.
“Did I ever tell you about the time your girl saved me from Brian?” Gibsie asked while he cracked an egg over the pan, distracting me from my thoughts.
“Brian?” I questioned, thinking about Mrs. Gibson’s evil bastard of a cat. “Shannon saved you from Brian?”
“She sure did,” he mused. Grabbing a spatula off the rack, he swung it around in his hand as he spoke. “I love how you don’t even deny she’s yours anymore, lad.”
“Fuck off,” I grumbled. Curiosity got the better of me then, and I perched my ass on a stool at the island and looked at him. “Tell me.”
Gibsie chuckled at my response.
“It was the day of my birthday last month,” he explained, tossing half a dozen sausages into the sizzling grease. “I’d taken Brian for a walk over to Hughie’s. You know how he gets when he’s left alone too long.”
“Yeah.” I nodded, not batting an eyelid at this information. There had been at least nine occasions over the last eighteen months when he had arrived at my house with the Inspector Gadget look-alike cat.
“He lost it, lad,” he said. “Went batshit crazy. Broke off his lead and made for the bathroom. Took a dump in the tub.”
“Like his owner,” I quipped.
“My mother has never taken a shit in anyone’s bathtub,” Gibsie snarled.
“Not your ma,” I retorted. “You.”
