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“Mom. She’s got a Google alert for your name.”
Oh, fuck me. “Mom saw it?”
“Mom sees everything.”
Isn’t that the truth? She interferes in everything too.Involveddoesn’t even begin to describe how Lynn Morgan prefers to be in her childrens’ lives. It’s a miracle I managed to keep her away from Sunday last night—for the most part. I did catch her talking her ear off about… God, I can’t even remember. I went over there to interrupt and got distracted by breathy laughter and patient eyes and slender fingers nervously toying with the hemline of a pretty, white dress, and then I was distracted by dress and what might be under it and soft, freckled thighs and manicured nails that felt so good raking down my biceps.
“She’s hot.”
I flinch. Breath once through my nose, long and deep, and punch my brother on the arm far gentler than I really want to. “Leave her alone.”
“She single?”
“She’s got a kid.”
“I know. I love kids. Love hot moms even more.”
“James.”
“Fine.” James holds up his hands, sigh dramatic and smirk poorly concealed. “She have a sister?”
I don’t dignify that with a response, even if I do think watching Willow Lane rip my brother apart would be very entertaining. Flicking my brother on the forehead as I stand, I ditch him in search of less irritating company, finding in the kitchen in the form of my parents.
Dark brown eyes narrow menacingly when I deign to get too close to a frying pan full of bacon, a deep brown hand slapping my wandering one away, downturned full lips flapping a warning. “Don’t even think about it.”
I pout at my mother. “But I’m hungry.”
Careful,” warns the paler, slimmer, much taller man sitting at the island, reading a newspaper and sipping coffee. “She’s in a mood this morning.”
“I amnotin a mood.” Mom squeaks an outraged noise, spinning to pin her glare on Patrick Hanlon, Amelia’s dad—mine too, for all intents and purposes. Always felt that way, always treated me that way, never mind the fact I already had a loving father. James and I are his the same way Amelia is my parents’, and it’s always been as simple as that.
Taking advantage of Mom’s distraction, I snag a strip of bacon, crunching it loudly as I ask, “Why’re you in a mood?”
It’s my dad who responds, wiping his dirty hands on a rag as he strolls in from the backyard, undoubtedly having spent the morning mowing my lawn—and everyone else's, because dads mow lawns, right? Everyone always says James and I are the mirror image of our dad, besides his lighter skin, and when he shoots my mom a shit-eating grin, I definitely see it. “She’s mopey about Amelia.”
“I’m not mopey.” Mom dodges Dad’s attempted kiss, swatting him away with an eye roll. “I’m just a little sad.”
“Why?”
I shouldn’t have asked; I know I shouldn’t have asked the second the question leaves my mouth, and that knowledge is reinforced when decidedlymopeyeyes swing my way. “This might be my last grandchild?”
Jesus Christ. “You know I only turned thirty-six yesterday?”
“Amelia was twenty-six when she had Rory.”
Amelia had two near-death experiences before her twenty-first birthday, met the love of her life in college, and pursued a career that didn’t involve spending half the year hopping around the country. “I won my first World Series when I was twenty-six. Does that mean nothing to you, Mother?”
“Don’t even try.” James snickers as he saunters into the kitchen, taking a seat next to Patrick. “You know Amelia’s her favorite. Everything she does is better.”
“I don’t have a favorite.”
Every man in the room snorts.
Mom tries to protest further, to no avail not only because none of us are buying, but also because her phone chirping interrupts her. Itkachings, actually, and when she sighs tiredly in my direction, I quickly figure out that my endlessly hilarious mother has assigned the sound of a fucking cash register opening to the Google alert she set for my name. “What did you do now?”
“Me?” Wide-eyed and innocent, I press a hand to my heart. “I never do anything.”
Four people snort in unison.
