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“Absolutely not, young lady,” Clara says, and despite August still bristling, that tone plunks me right back down in the chair like someone’s pushed me. “You were here first. August, sit.”
Her sharpness is just enough to cut through August’s tension. He sighs and steps into the room, closing the door more delicately.
“Marshall women,” he mutters. “Bossy as hell.”
“You’re no better,” I point out. “You give orders like you own the place.”
“Because I do,” he answers pointedly, trudging across the room and dropping down into the third chair at the table, folding his hands. His blue eyes crackle, but at least he seems a smidge calmer. “I have a twenty-five percent share. Deb has another twenty-five. Aunt Clara has the fifty percent controlling stake.”
“Which is why all your blustering about firing me was absolute nonsense,” Clara says, setting a teacup in front of him before reclaiming her seat. “Do be careful with that. Don’t spill anything on Elle’s sketchbook.”
August starts to open his mouth but stops, looking at my battered book on the table and ignoring his tea. His expression eases, but the lines around his eyes are concerningly deep. He flashes me a glance, that unruly lock of hair drifting across his eyes.
“May I?”
“O-oh.” I don’t know why I’m suddenly embarrassed, but I clear my throat and look away, tucking my hair back. “S-sure.”
“Thank you.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t. I’m suddenly more nervous than I was when Clara was looking at them. I don’t know what I’ll do if August laughs, or something worse.
But there’s only silence, except for the soft sounds of paper against paper.
Chest tight, I glance back shyly. I can’t look at him directly.
But then I stop.
Because he’s really looking at the pages.
He has the intense concentration I’ve seen on his face before that says whatever he’s looking at has his full attention.
He’s staring at my drawings, absorbing them, taking time to appreciate them.
To appreciate something I created, like my silly little doodles are actually worthy of a focus so intense.
I really am about to blow to smithereens.
Fireworks everywhere, bright and hot and bursting.
While August looks at my sketchbook and I look at him, I realize Clara’s looking at me.
Her smile is small and thoughtful, her eyes glittering with warmth.
I clear my throat, looking away again. That seems to break August’s focus, and he murmurs, “Hello, Kiki.”
My heart goes to pieces right there.
“Kiki the Koala,” he says again. A touch of rumbling approval, softening the anger that roughened his voice only a minute ago. “How did you come up with her?”
“Oh, well ...” No one’s ever asked me that before. It takes a second to find my voice, and I breathe deeply. “Gran,” I say. “Gran and Lena. When we were little, Lena and I fought like wet cats in a bag. We’d be best friends one second and hate on each other the next. Sometimes we didn’t mean it. Sometimes we did. We were both really headstrong. And when we swore we’d never talk or play again, Gran would call us inside and sit us down with tea for everyone.” The memory warms something inside me, like holding my heart in front of a crackling fire. “She’d always ask us to try to figure out what was in today’s cup. Anise, lavender, vanilla, honeysuckle, jasmine, mint. We’d get so distracted guessing, we’d forget what we were even fighting about. And then she’d bring us cookies, and we’d all enjoy the rest of the afternoon.” I smile, ducking my head. “So I turned that into Kiki. There’s no problem she can’t fix by sitting people down with a cup of eucalyptus tea and getting them to talk.”
“Teaching children conflict resolution and love for a good cup of tea,” August says, his lips curling. I fizz like champagne, breathless and bright. He turns to the last page, closes the back cover, and gives me those stark blue eyes again. “I like it. It’s a damn good concept. There’s a warmth to her that creates an immediate connection to the page.”
Oh no. Am I about to start crying just because August gets my drawings?
I smile, trying to hold it back. “Don’t embarrass me like this. I can’t cry in front of your aunt.”
“Of course you can, dear,” Clara says. “It’s always better to cry with joy.”
