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“Yeah,” she mutters then goes on, “but only if you come to Sunday morning breakfasts with us.”
My mind sobs. Sunday morning? Oh, hell no!
Sunday is the only day I get to sleep in, and I love sleep. At home, when it was all us girls in one house, if someone dared make noise before eleven am on a weekend, I would calmly get out of bed, beat the shit out of them, and then fall back into a coma until I felt I was recharged enough to face the day.
Grin and bear it, Lena.
Forcing a smile, I grit my teeth and chirp, “Sure. I love breakfast.” Ceecee smiles at the pan, and I narrow my eyes at her. I can’t help but think she’s up to something, the little scamp.
Before I know it, I’m switching off the stove and bringing over an oven-proof dish to where Ceecee’s parked by the counter. I open the bag of corn chips and dump them into the dish. Ceecee tops the chips with the ground beef mixture. I tell her to top it with cheese and she sprinkles it on. When she’s done, I pop the dish into the oven and set the time for fifteen minutes.
I quickly put Ceecee to work by helping me clean the mess we’ve made in the kitchen. Soon enough, the timer beeps. Ceecee suddenly looks worried. I open the oven and the smell hits me. “Oh dear God, Ceecee.”
She panics, “What?”
Grinning, I turn and whisper loudly, “It smells amazing!” I carefully remove the dish from the oven. As I place it on the stove, I tell her, “Do not touch that. It’s hotter than hel—” In the presence of a minor! Oops. “It’s hotter than Ian Somerhalder.”
She smiles. “It’s okay. I’ve heard worse.”
Of course she has. She’s grown up with Max, Nik, Ash, and Trick. It’s a miracle her ears aren’t constantly bleeding, the poor dear. “Right. I’m going to tell your dad to clear up the dining table so we can eat.”
As soon as I walk out of the kitchen and into the hall, I jump up and down on the spot, silently cheering at the fact that I’m doing something right. Ceecee agreed to exercise without me having to bribe her. I made it her choice.
Wait a minute. My bouncing body stills. I made it her choice. My eyes widen. Oh my God. I made it her choice! A smile spreads across my face. That’s it! I look into the dining room and my vagina jumps off of a trapeze, freefalling with her arms spread wide by her sides.
Max sits at the dining table in front of an open laptop, one leg stretched out in front of him, the other bent at the knee, his foot on the base of the chair. Chewing on a pen and looking into the screen distractedly, his glasses are perched on top of his nose.
He has glasses. Not just any glasses. Trendy, geek chic, rectangular reading glasses. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. A frown tips my lips. I raise my head and mentally pray.
This isn’t fair, God. I’m not allowed to touch him. Why are you playing with my emotions like this? Is it because I asked Jacob Schmidt to show me his thing in the first grade? I was young and curious! Give me a break!
Lowering my face, I glance over at Max and swallow through my thick throat.
Let me tell you something about myself. Men with glasses…they do it for me. Something about a good-looking man changes when he puts on glasses. He becomes someone else, a gorgeous version of himself. While women were swooning over Superman, I was swooning over Clark Kent. Oh yeah. Give me a man with glasses any day of the week.
I clear my throat and he looks up at me with a lazy smile. “Hey.”
I motion to his laptop. “You almost done? Dinner’s ready.”
“Yeah, I’m done.” He removes his glasses, placing them down on the table.
My feet move of their own accord until I’m right in front of him. I pick the glasses up off the table, lift them, and gently place them back on his head. I state softly, “Don’t take them off. They look good on you.”
I turn to walk away, but he snags my wrist and yanks. I land on his lap and his long, muscular arms wrap around me, holding me in place. I don’t fight him this time. I’ve seen him with the other girls. I know this is how he is. It doesn’t seem right for me to ask him to be someone else around me. He’s right. I’m just going to have to get used to it. He asks quietly, “How’d it go?”
I feign boredom. “Oh, you know. We cooked. We talked. We had fun. Girls stuff.” My eyes smile down
at him. “She agreed to cooking lessons and exercise sessions three times a week. But only if I come to Sunday breakfasts with you guys, so please tell me that’s after ten am, because otherwise, I might just cry.”
I expect something. A smile. A laugh. A victorious hi-five. I get nothing. Instead, his arms tighten around me. He closes his eyes and drops his forehead to my shoulder. He holds me for a long while and I lift my hand to rub his forearm. I’m not sure why, but it feels as though he needs comfort right now.
I give him his moment before gently removing his hands and standing. I make my way to the kitchen to find Ceecee has already put together plates and cutlery. She moves out of the kitchen, and as she passes me, I can’t help myself. I lean down and kiss her head. “You did good, sweetie.”
She smiles up at me. “I had a good teacher.”
If there ever was a compliment to receive from a child, that would be the one. My stupid nose tingles, and before I start blubbering like a loon, I quickly take the dish of nachos off the stove and move it into the dining room. Max sits while Ceecee places the plates down. He looks to the dish I place in the middle of the table and grins. When she passes him the next time, he quickly grabs a handle and pulls her chair backward. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and utters, “This looks good, baby girl. My mouth’s watering. Feed me.”
When she mutters an unsure, “Thanks, Daddy,” he kisses her cheek and lets her go.
