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Her borderline shout echoing around my car, I share a wide-eyed exchange with August in the rearview mirror. He shakes his head with a grimace, a silent warning I don’t heed. “Something happen?”
Sunday huffs. “Nope.”
“Feeling okay?”
“Yup.”
“Sunday-”
“Can you just take us home already?”
A twinge of disappointment pulls in my chest. “If that’s what you want.”
“I just said it was, didn’t I?”
Jesus.Vicious.
Almost as soon as I start towards her apartment building, I get a better idea. Or a worse idea, depending on how you look at it, since I’m not sure anyone has ever brought witty humor and a smile to a gunfight and won.
My perceptive young friend in the backseat catches on quickly. Subtly leaning forward, he taps my shoulder until I meet his gaze in the mirror again. Bug-eyed, he shakes his head rapidly.This is a terrible idea, he silently conveys.
I’ve got this, I reply through a nod.
Unlike her son, Sunday is so busy scowling at the dashboard, she doesn’t notice we’re going the wrong way. Not until we’re pulling into my driveaway does she finally catch on, howling a wince-inducing noise of outrage. “This isn’t my apartment.”
“Oh.” I fake a frown. “You meantyourhome?”
“Cass!”
Clearly fearing his mother’s wrath, August leaps from the vehicle, making a break for the Jackson-Evans’ house and hollering something about doing homework with Isaac.
“Dinner’ll be ready in an hour,” I shout after him as I round the hood of the Jeep to wrench open the passenger door, chuckling when he shoots me a salute and a mouthed ‘good luck’ in response. “Let’s go, my little ray of sunshine.”
Looking one word away from punching me in the groin, Sunday snarls, “I’m not hungry.”
I roll my lips together to stop a smile; grumpy looks good on her. “Come inside, Sunday.”
“No.”
I pout. “Pretty please?”
“No.”
“I’ll make chicken wings.”
Bingo. Sunday glares at me from under long lashes, one foot inching its way to the running board. “Honey garlic?”
“Uh-huh.”
The other foot joins the first. “And fries?”
‘Whatever you want.”
Fingers curling around the edge of the Jeep, she hesitates before jumping out. “I want blue cheese dip.”
“You can’t have blue cheese.” When her scowl deepens, I scramble for a compromise. “I’ll make you a coffee.”
I am the Pregnant Lady Whisperer—heart-shaped coffee beans practically dance in Sunday’s eyes. “I already had one.”
