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CHAPTER 8
Nina
I have to say that when I pictured Thaddius’ grandma and mom, I kind of thought they’d be monsters. Not the kind with hair and horns who live in caves or anything, but like the more dangerous, less cute, and fuzzy people with some seriously monstrous life-ruining ideas. I thought they’d be mean, prissy, stuck up, and very, very strange.
It turns out they’re just as human as the rest of us. Thaddius’ grandma is even kind of cute, and his mom is pretty. They both seem to have a sense of humor, and it’s obvious, even to me, as I stand over at the stove and flip an omelet, that they love Thaddiussomuch. They’re not monsters at all. Although, his mom asked for broccoli in her omelet, and I think that’s pretty monstrously disgusting.
Alright, so right now, Thaddius thumped into the house, and his mom and grandma walked in after, smelling like sweet-scented perfume and looking expensive and put together. Thaddius, however, looks like a storm cloud about to break open and rain all over everyone’s parade.
“All those cameras are coming down. Now. You might as well tell me where they are.”
Cameras? Something in my gut tells me it’s time to change the subject. “Are you sure about the broccoli?” They gave me their omelet orders after waking me up and scaring me half to death. I instantly bolted upright in bed when I heard female whispers and footsteps that weren’t Thaddius’. They might have scared the life out of me, and I might not have wanted to face my not-so-future mother-in-law and grandma-in-law with a bedhead and sleep in my eyes, my nipples doing something that until the day I die, I’m going to pretend didn’t happen at the smell ofmanall over the sheets I’d just spent the night in, but I sucked it up and offered to make breakfast.
That’s what one does when one finds interlopers in a house that isn’t one’s own, and the whole thing is batshit bananas, isn’t it?
Wanda—and I’ve heard my mom and aunt complain more than enough about Wanda and Wendy, the two Wonderduck girls, that I am well acquainted with her name—gives me a nice smile. She’s the kind of person who looks best with a smile on, but if she wanted to smile and scowl at the same time, it would look terrifying. You know, the kind of smile that saysdon’t fuck with me, sweetie, because I will tear you to pieces one shred at a time with my mom skills?I have a feeling she’s a master of that kind of smile, but that she’d only ever use it if someone was messing with her and hers.
“I’m sure. Broccoli makes the world go round. It’s high in awesomeness.”
I’m pretty sure it’s also high in disgustingness, but I won’t tell someone they can’t eat what they like.
“Are there tomatoes?” Elmira Wonderduck asks me. “Grown right here on this farm, steeped in sheep poo and other organic fertilizers?”
“Erm…”
“Yes, there are tomatoes,” Thaddius grinds out. “But the cameras. You’re going to tell me where they are.Now, Granny.”
I now know what a man who is about to lose his patience in the most spectacular fashion looks like. I also know Thaddius is way too hot for someone who just spent the night in the barn with the sheep, sleeping on a pile of hay. There isn’t even a single blade of hay stuck to him. He’s ridiculously handsome. Bedhead looks good on him, and so does the dark stubble dotting his jawline. He looks well rested and like he didn’t mind one bit getting some shut-eye with the animals. He might be standing across the kitchen, but it’s a small farmhouse, and the kitchen isn’t big. By no means should he smell as good as he does.
My ovaries are over here practically busting out their own omelets, which is just…a horrible thing to think about.
“Granny. Mom. Cameras. Now.”
“Well, hmphf. If you insist.”
His grandma turns to me, and I’m not sure what the wink is about, but I get one anyway. “I’d like mine with extra tomatoes. More tomatoes than eggs. Almost all tomatoes. With some salt and pepper, some of that fancy vinegar glaze, and a dash of hot sauce. Spice keeps us vital, you know.”
I nod.
While I concentrate and get cracking—haha, egg jokes—Thaddius clomps around the house in his big boots, faded jeans, and that T-shirt that is soholy, Hannah, ouch to the lady bitsjust right. He’s all muscly and bristly andwarmlooking.
Turns out I’m not just cooking eggs. I’m also cooking my brain over here. Or there’s a good chance it’s already well and truly cooked if it’s sending hormonal signals that are all over the place to an entirely different kind of egg.
Within twenty minutes, Thaddius’ mom and grandma have pointed out at least six cameras, and now I get what he’s so steamed about. They pulled them out of the wall, one out of the eye of a painting in a hollowed-out spot behind a wall, two hidden by ceiling lights, and one from the super cool, huge cactus in the living room.
I only know about all the locations because Thaddius went on a disbelieving rant every single time he pulled them out.
The cactus? That is too far! How did you even get the camera in there without getting stuck? Are you kidding me? You hollowed out the wall behind the painting? The lights? That’s some serious spy shit there, Grandma.
I’m in the middle of cooking the world’s most plain omelet because Thaddius didn’t tell me what he wanted in his, and I wasn’t about to ask him when he walked in looking like he was about to tear down the place, his jaw ticking and his eye twitching all crazily. I figure cheese is a safe bet. Who doesn’t like cheese? He stalks into the kitchen as I’m very carefully turning the thing over in a cast iron frying pan that is basically more about egg murder than it is about cooking. One quick trip to the sink and a whole armload of tech goes in. It’s a farmhouse sink, white and huge, so it fits everything. Then, he runs the tap over it, effectively killing it for good. Unless they’re waterproof.
Wanda and Elmira enter the kitchen, seemingly completely unbothered about the fact that they obviously bugged his house.
I don’t want to get involved, especially since I’m already too far into this. I don’t want to get sucked into the black hole of messed-up grandmothers and kick-ass spy moms.
“Breakfast is ready.” I slip the last omelet onto one of the white plates with the surprisingly pretty embossed flowers around the edges. “Get ‘em while they’re hot.”
The table in the corner—a round wooden antique piece with four wood and leather chairs—seats all of us.
