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“I heard that,” Luke singsongs, his voice muffled through my clenched hand.
I snap the phone back to my ear. “Are you calling for the sole purpose of annoying me? ‘Cuz if so, it’s working.”
Luke laughs the laugh of a man who was not up half the night checking for monsters under his niece’s bed. “You focus on getting our girl to school, I’ll make sure the newbie’s set up at work.”
Right. I totally forgot that our new data analyst starts this morning.
I don’t know anything about her other than the fact that she’s female and highly-qualified. Hiring isn’t something I get involved with. Mostly because it requires charming-people skills, and I just don’t have time for that.
I’m eager to meet her, though. Our app’s user data will be fundamental in shaping the company vision that we present to Wiseman. I’m hoping that this new hire will give us the info we need to improve on the app, make it even more user-friendly and appealing. Thereby securing us much-needed funding from Wiseman’s company.
No pressure.
“What’re you burning, Uncle Liam?” Legs appears in the kitchen with a squirming Harry Styles under one arm. She’s wearing a bathing suit, one sock and what looks like satin evening gloves.
“Gotta go,” I mutter to Luke, even as I hear him cackling in the background.
“Don’t be late!”
“I won’t. Mark my words.”
Luke laughs again, so I hang up on him, then focus my attention on my niece. “Toast. I’m burning toast. What are you wearing, Allegra?”
“Clothes,” she smirks. “I’m wearing clothes.”
Brat got that sass straight from her mama.
“You can’t wear a bathing suit to school.”
“Don’t say ‘can’t’,” she chides. “Mommy says I can do anything.”
“Great. Can you sit down and eat your toast then, please? And do you know where your lunch box is?”
She grasps corner of the bread and gives it a disapproving look. “I don’t like burnt toast.”
Yeah, me neither.
I rub the spot on my head where the tumbler hit me, and take a long, slow inhale. Time to change tactics. “Legs, if you change out of your bathing suit and put on shorts, a t-shirt, and sneakers, I’ll take you to Chick-fil-A for a breakfast sandwich on the way to school. Okay?”
Her little face lights up. “Two.”
“Two what?”
“Two chicken sandwiches. One for breakfast, one for lunch.”
I glance around me helplessly. I haven’t had coffee, the lunch box is nowhere to be found, and…
Oh, lovely. Harry Styles is making a violent choking sound. He unceremoniously throws up another hairball.
I look back at Legs, who’s giving me her best gap-toothed smile.
“You’ve got yourself a deal,” I say solemnly. “Now, hurry. I don’t want to be late.”
* * *
Half an hour later, I am indeed late.
Between Legs refusing to settle her butt into her booster seat after our stop at Chick-Fil-A, having to make an emergency trip to Circle K for Skittles (yes, another bribe. But poor thing got a bit teary again about her mom not being here, and I may or may not have had another minor panic), and then having to walk her to her class and sit with her until her friend Jenny arrived, I was already late when I hit 75 north. Which, of course, was backed up due to construction.
