Page 7 of A Really Bad Idea

“But, Mom—”

“Dylan James Duvane, you know better. Now, you don’t get to play for a month,” she says.

It’s almost shocking how the sassy girl I love to gossip with over trips to Bloomingdale’s can morph into a hard-ass mom in a nanosecond.

“You’re so unfair!” he wails at his mother while simultaneously whipping his head back to get his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes.

“It’s my fault,” I defend my nephew.

I get up from the couch and stand behind him. I place my hands on his shoulders and give them a hard squeeze. The little liar didn’t tell me he was grounded.

“I begged,” I explain to Beth. “He told me he was in no way allowed to play, even threw himself on the floor in protest, but I told him he had to.” I dig my fingers into his skin a little harder and feel his back arch. “We made a deal. He said he’d do all the dishes tonight after dinner.”

“No, I didn’t—” he starts, but I walk to his side and give him a raised brow. He quickly catches on and bats his long lashes at his mother. “I … don’t want you to do all that work after you spent the day cooking and cleaning,” he says with the sweetest smile.

Beth is tapping her Tory Burch–clad foot with a skeptical frown on her face. It’s obvious she doesn’t believe him, but as they say … choose your battles wisely. “All right, upstairs. Now. Your dad is looking for you.”

The boys rush up the stairs as I turn off the television.

“I love when you go all mom on them,” I say, impressed.

She releases her arms that were crossed in front of her body and lets out a groan. “It makes me feel old. One minute, you’re twenty-five and bringing your newborn home from the hospital, and the next, you’re arguing with a preteen over the purchase of a T-shirt that says My Pen Is Huge.”

It takes me a second to realize why the shirt would be inappropriate. I finally let out a giggle, and she fights to control her own. She loses her own will and laughs along with me.

“Gotta give him credit for having a sense of humor.”

“Like his aunt! Nice try, by the way. There’s no way that kid is washing my wineglasses without breaking them.”

I smash my lips together to stifle a laugh. “We’ll get some pots and pans out of him.”

She walks over to the couch and rearranges the pillows in the perfect way they were before Aiden stomped all over them. I assist on the other end of the sectional sofa.

“While it’s clear you love spending time with your nephews, why do I suspect you’re escaping down here?” she asks.

I feign being insulted. “Never. I love spending time with my family.”

“Is that why, when your parents arrived an hour ago, you ran down here like there was a tornado warning?”

“New Jersey doesn’t get tornados,” I deadpan.

She raises her chin with an inquisitive smirk. “And what do you call your mother?”

I throw an arm around Beth’s shoulders. “Would you like to stay down here in my bunker?”

She looks around the media room that her and my brother, Brian, created for football Sundays and video games. The way the gray chenille sofa, pool table, bar, and three flat screen TVs line the room make it the optimal place for either activity.

“Tempting, but I prefer to hide out in my closet.”

I step back and palm my hands together in prayer. “Take me to your sanctuary.”

She gives me her best serious-mother face and points toward the stairs. “Upstairs, young lady.”

I drop my shoulders and stomp off with my head to my chest as if I were a scolded child. “Yes, Mom.”

With a smile, she pushes me toward the steps.

Brian and Beth’s house is a mini-mansion in Bergen County, New Jersey. It’s where the wealthy people of the tri-state area live. Think Oprah and Dr. Oz. Their home is on a street of other equally gorgeous houses, but the others don’t have Beth’s designer touches—weathered gray hardwood floors, cream-colored walls, and navy-blue accents. Even their family pictures were done to coordinate with their home with everyone dressed in shades of blue and cream.