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“Uncle Barrett said we were getting pizza!” Mattie grins at me. “I love pizza.”
“Well, unless Uncle Barrett is buying, we ain’t getting pizza,” Aaron says, obviously hinting for more cash. Cash Barrett delivers with minimal reluctance. Giving his brother money appears to be commonplace.
“Thanks, man. I owe ya. Nice to meet you, Kitty Cat.” Aaron’s voice is slimy.
“It’s Catarina.”
He ignores me and leads Mattie to the door.
“Hey, kiddo. I need that.” Barrett holds out a hand for the iPad which Mattie returns, though part of me wonders if Aaron wasn’t aware that his son was walking out with it.
“Big hug.” Barrett kneels, and Mattie loops his arms around his uncle’s neck and squeezes, growling when he squeezes harder. Barrett fakes choking and falls to his side while Mattie giggles excitedly. It’s so sweet. “Love you, bud. Be good, okay?”
Mattie yells “Okay!” and Barrett shuts the door.
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “You thought Mattie was mine?”
“What was I supposed to think?”
“I guess I didn’t consider that. Thought it was obvious that he wasn’t.”
Silence hangs in the air for a few seconds before he folds onto his couch and runs a hand through his hair. Outside, the sun sits low in the sky, making room for the moon though it’s not dark yet.
I sit next to him and swipe at a dirty shoe smudge on the couch cushion. “Do you have any leather cleaner?”
“No, but my housekeeper does.”
Housekeeper. Right. Of course he has a housekeeper. A vision of a cute blonde in a tiny black-and-white maid costume clatters into my head. I shove it out.
“I take it you’re not big on kids.” He’s leaning back, deliciously sprawled with a cup of coffee hanging from his fingers.
As a woman who just edged over thirty years old, I take immediate offense. Why is it that women are always answering for the whole not-having-kids thing?
“Are you ‘big on kids?’” I ask, peeved.
He shrugs. “I love kids. That kid especially.”
“But you never had any of your own.” I continue poking.
“Beth and I weren’t stable. My career was all over the place.”
“If not for that you’d be a dad?”
“Yeah. Hell yeah.”
I study him anew—like he’s a rare find behind museum glass. With a card to the right reading “Bad Boy Who Loves Kids.” It fits him and doesn’t at the same time.
His hand slides into my hair and plays in the strands. I make a concerted effort not to purr.
“My brother’s...” He trails off and shakes his head. “Do you have siblings?”
“No.”
“We grew up in a...less pretty part of town than you did, Kitty Cat. One with trailers instead of mansions.”
“I hardly grew up in a mansion.” I’m almost offended though I don’t know why.
“Did you have a big house? Big yard? Nice neighborhood where the kids could play in the street?”
