Page 16 of Silver Player

“Why don’t you both sit down?” You’re each making me nervous. I’m struggling with the spaghetti jar, straining and grunting in my attempts to twist the lid. I even have it clutched between my breasts, hoping the placement will give me additional leverage. Billy reaches for the jar, tugging the container forward, and pops the lid with one flick of his wrist. Men.

“I loosened it up for you,” I mumble.

“I’d like to loosen something else,” he mutters under his breath, and my eyes leap to his and then over his shoulder to Sadie. Billy straightens as if he’s quickly forgotten a teenager stands among us. His eyes lower, and he bows his head a second. Turning on his heels, he faces Sadie.

“Tell me more of what you don’t like about school.” He pulls out a chair and helps himself to a seat at the table. Sadie’s struggling. I can see the hesitation in her eyes, like a deer trapped in headlights. She wants to plop down across from him and open up while at the same time she’s keeping her walls securely in place. I don’t blame her. Having Billy Harrington in my kitchen is a bit unnerving.

Sadie speaks but with minimal word answers until she mentions Mrs. Pritchard.

“She’s still teaching?” Billy snorts. “She must be a hundred. She used to let me copy off Katlyn Reiss although she didn’t know she was doing it. Here Billy, look at Katlyn’s paper for help,” he mocks in feminine imitation. “Help it was. Got an A in her class thanks to Katlyn.”

I bet that’s not all he scored with Katlyn Reiss near him, but Sadie smiles, just a little, enough so her eyes sparkle a rich deep golden tone.

“I think she single-handedly made me hate reading,” Billy adds, and I gasp.

“You hate to read? Blasphemy,” I mock, placing a hand on my chest.

“That just proves we can’t be related, as I love to read,” Sadie states, the wall returning to its full height.

“I’m glad to hear it. Reading’s important; I just couldn’t do it.” Billy sits a little straighter, staring down at his hands clenched together on my wooden table. “I have dyslexia, which wasn’t diagnosed until I was out of high school.” He inhales, and adds, “Do you have anything like that?”

My brows pinch at the genuine concern in his voice. He’s worried she struggles because he has dyslexia, and as his child, she might as well. But he owns a business where he must be able to read, and he’s proven he’s successful despite any challenges to him.

“I’m not dumb, if that’s what you’re asking,” Sadie says, her tone defiant, and I glare at my niece. Admitting this struggle must have taken courage from Billy, and the least she can do is be sensitive. She doesn’t have any learning disabilities like he’s just admitted, but she doesn’t need to be a little snot about it.

“Sadie Wilhelmina. That’s enough.” She’s just being rude. She has enough sense to blink down at the table, her body language the only sign of her chagrin.

“Wilhelmina? What kind of name is that?” Billy chuckles softly.

“Apparently, my father’s name in feminine form.” With that, Sadie stands and leaves the room.

“Shit,” Billy mumbles into his hand which covers his mouth. “I’m doing so bad at this.”

My heart skips another beat of compassion. It’s difficult for all of us, and I’ve known this secret for sixteen years.

“It takes time. You’ll get the hang of it.”

“She hates me.” Billy sighs.

“She doesn’t hate you. She just doesn’t know you. Once she does, then she’ll really hate you,” I tease.

Billy’s lips part as if he has a retort, but when he sees the crooked smile on my face, he relaxes back in his seat.

“I’m an acquired taste.”

“I bet,” I huff as my face heats. I turn back to the stove, adding the pasta to the boiling water. I shouldn’t think about tasting Billy. Not those lips that look like they wanted a sip of me on the back stairs. Not his neck just under the hairline of that soft scruff. And definitely not any other parts of his anatomy.

Eggplant? I internally snort.

“What about you? Are you an acquired taste?” His voice is at my ear, and his presence behind me sends more heat rushing through my entire body, forcing latent parts to ignite into long-suppressed flames.

This is not good. I cannot be turned on by him.

“You’ll never know,” I mock while stirring the pot of spaghetti before me.

“We’ll see,” Billy hisses, his hand coming to my hip for a second. My body trembles at the intimate touch. He’s playing with me, but I’m not about to be played. The oven beeps for the garlic bread, and I step back, forcing Billy to release me. He chuckles as he returns to his seat.

“How am I going to win her over?” he asks, his tone turning serious.