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‘The what?’
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed Aldo hero-worships you.’ As he used to do with her. Back when he was a toddler and she wasn’t a bitch.
‘Yeah, right.’ Trey heaped a bowl with Cheerios. ‘I wish.’
‘He doesn’t …?’ Was that the tiniest hint of snark? And why did it please her so much? It hardly mattered to her whether Aldo genuflected whenever Mr Lame-But-Hot appeared.
He glanced up and she could see him deliberating for a moment. ‘I just happen to know the top-secret formula to handling ten-year-old boys.’
‘Which is?’ she asked, stupidly pleased by the hint of confidentiality in his tone.
He splashed half a pint of milk into the Cheerios, shovelled a spoonful in his mouth. Chewed and swallowed. ‘If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.’
The joke was so cute and so unexpected, she grinned. ‘Only if I rat to the au pair police, and I won’t.’
‘All right, then, here it is …’ He propped his elbow on the breakfast bar and leaned towards her, bringing his face close enough for her to pick out the compelling hints of hazelnut in the chocolate brown. And see the small abrasion on his chin where he’d nicked himself shaving. ‘Feed them, water them and exhaust them,’ he murmured. ‘Not necessarily in that order.’
‘But that’s … way too easy.’ Aldo had been a complete nightmare until her mum had hired Trey. Lizzie had been jealous while also a little awed by his ability to solve all her brother’s problems, when a team of child psychologists, behavioural therapists and remedial teaching staff had failed.
‘Easy?’ he scoffed, cradling the bowl in his hand to take another gigantic spoonful. ‘Try exhausting a ten-year-old boy. It’s not easy. It’s bloody hard work. They have more energy than Mo Farah on speed.’
‘How did you figure it out?’ she asked, the awe showing through.
‘Simple. I was a ten-year-old boy myself once with more energy than I knew what to do with. I know what it’s like having it all bubbling away inside you. Unless you work it off regularly, you feel like you’re going to explode right out of your skin.’
She couldn’t imagine him as a ten-year-old boy, he seemed so confident and mature. She could, however, imagine him having enough energy to explode out of his skin. The way his biceps bulged and flexed as he focused on scooping the last of the cereal into his mouth looked powerful, and ridiculously erotic.
She wondered what he did to work all that energy off now?
‘And did you?’ she asked, not too bothered by the husky timbre of her voice. Even if it was a dead giveaway to the filthy direction of her thoughts. ‘Explode, I mean.’
He was far too square to jack off on a regular basis. And far too polite to guess her ratty pyjama shorts were getting a damp spot while she speculated on the possibility.
He finished demolishing the Cheerios and placed the bowl in the dishwasher. But when his eyes met hers, colour crept into her cheeks at the long, considering look. The damp spot grew as she wondered if she’d overestimated his squareness. Or underestimated his mind-reading abilities. She crossed her legs to ease the growing ache between her thighs. And recrossed her arms under her breasts, which now felt as if they had swollen to twice their normal size: i.e., almost big enough to fill a B-cup.
‘Not quite.’ He broke eye contact to wipe the coffee spill off the countertop with a paper towel. ‘Although the school authorities would probably have disagreed.’
She should have apologised for leaving the spill, but she was too rapt by the conversation and the insight into his past. ‘Why?’
‘Perhaps because I spent more time on exclusion than I did at school.’ He pitched the towel into the kitchen bin. All nonchalance. ‘Detentions, time outs didn’t work on me, so they went large. And that didn’t work, either.’
‘You got excluded from school? I don’t believe it.’ Mr Perfecto, a problem child? Get outta here.
His eyebrow hiked up. Then his crooked smile sent a jolt of pleasure through her. She’d never seen him smile like that before. Not polite and distant, but warm and a bit wicked. Or at least not at her.
‘Why not? Because I’m supposed to be Mr Perfecto?’
‘You know about that?’
His lips quirked. ‘You don’t have a lot of volume control when you’re mad.’
She felt instantly contrite. It was a novel feeling. ‘I’m sorry. That stuff …’ She hesitated, not wanting to explain. ‘It’s not really about you.’ Although she had included him in her war of attrition with her mother. Because she’d been jealous of his success with Aldo, and how much her mum raved about him. And not her. When she hadn’t given her mum much reason to rave about her of late. It all felt rather small and petty and juvenile now.
‘That’s OK.’ The smile didn’t falter as he shrugged. ‘Better to be Mr Perfecto than Mr Arsehole.’
The comment made her feel insecure. Was he sharing the joke with her or taking the piss? He probably didn’t like her much. Why would he?
‘Why don’t I make brownies to take with us to the Serps?’ It was a peace offering, pure and simple. She studied his expression to gauge his reaction, keeping watch for any signs of the contempt she’d seen so often from Liam when she’d tried too hard to please him.
