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Presley lifts her shoulder in a careless shrug typical of preteens. “It’s okay.”
“Anything new going on?”
“Nope,” she chirps as she pulls back the last of the banana peel and sets it on her napkin. Happiness sparkles in her eyes as she looks at me. “Except for this cute boy who just moved in down the street.”
My jaw tightens unconsciously, and a flare of irritation sours my stomach. As a twelve-year-old, Presley shouldn’t be noticing boys yet.
Even though she isn’t our daughter, I still feel responsible for her. It never made sense to me why, but Presley started showing up at our house at random times after moving into our neighborhood a few years ago. It’s never for a specific reason. She just likes to hang out. Her visits are always brief, lasting no more than a few minutes. It doesn’t bother me when she’s here though. She’s a cute kid and sometimes quite entertaining. Just not when she’s talking about boys.
“Aren’t you too young to be thinking about boys?” I ask the question with as much calm as I can muster.
The sparkle in her eyes doesn’t dim at all. Instead, she giggles, and despite my suddenly peevish mood, my heart warms.
“It’s not like I want to kiss him and stuff. I just think he’s cute. But not as cute as you, of course,” she adds quickly, her grin widening until all of her teeth flash.
Despite her young age, Presley is a flirt. It doesn’t bother me because I know her crush is the innocent kind most kids her age have on adult figures.
“Stay away from boys, Presley. They’re bad news.”
She rolls her eyes and replies sarcastically, “Yes, Dad.”
I grunt while holding my cup to my lips.
“What are you up to today?” The rest of the banana gets stuffed into her mouth as she waits for my answer.
“Work.”
Her pert little nose wrinkles adorably. “You mean that place where girls get naked and shake their butts? ”
“How do you know about Slate?” I ask, mildly surprised.
She grabs the end of her braid and rubs it over her cheek while muttering, “I hear stuff.”
My eyes narrow. “What kind of stuff?”
“Just stuff. Gross grown-up stuff.” She drops her braid, tilting her head curiously, “Do you... like that kind of stuff?”
Nope, not going there.
I set my cup down. “That, little girl, is none of your business.”
A tiny sparkle appears in her eyes, indicating she knows exactly what she’s doing and is enjoying it. “Fine. I’ll ask Cat.”
“You’ll do no such thing. That information is too delicate for your young ears.”
Once again, her eyes roll upward before returning to me. “You’re no fun.”
“And you act older than you are.”
“Whatever.”
Huffing, Presley carries the napkin and banana peel to the trash, rinses out her glass, then deposits it in the dishwasher.
She starts for the kitchen door. “It’s time for me to go. I’ll see you later, Hunter.”
With that, she leaves without saying another word. Standing up from my seat, I watch her skip down the hall and disappear into the living room. The door closes a second later.
Amused by Presley’s abrupt departure, I walk over to the stack of papers she left behind. Presley, like Cat, enjoys writing, except her stories are innocent and sweet about her daily life at home with her parents and little brother. They’re more like journal entries, and she likes to share them with Cat.
