Page 18 of Too Sweet
Her blonde locks swinging from left to right in a ponytail as she plays are all I see; the lyrics pouring from her pouty mouth are all I hear. I’m in a daze until the melody ceases too soon.
“I believe that’s your favorite song,” she says, turning back around.
“How did you know?”
“I know a lot about you. You’re a stockbroker. A very good one. Your birthday’s next week. You don’t like birthday cake and eat apple pie with raisins instead. You like spaghetti, warm chocolate brownies, sky diving, and the color green.”
I cock a questioning eyebrow but don’t stop her. This isn’t the kind of information my mother would share if she played cupid—which she does often lately—so I know Mia’s not getting it from her.
“When you were four, Theo broke your foot with an iron. You’ve got a birthmark on your right shoulder in the shape of a bunny. Your favorite movie growing up wasOscarwith Stallone, but your mom didn’t let you watch it. Not that it stopped you... you watched itelsewhere.” She bites down a smile. “Should I keep going?”
The corner of my lips turns up against better judgment. It’s hard not to smile when she’s around, a little ray of sunshine. “Those Bridge sessions... you play with my grandmother, don’t you? Am I the only one she talks about, or just the only one you pay attention to?”
Someone pushes that cheek-reddening button again.
“I can tell you something about all your brothers. When he was five, Shawn thought forcing Logan into the tumble dryer would be funny. He only went in halfway but braced his elbows inside. It took your mom an hour to get him out.”
“I don’t remember that, but I heard about it. Why do you play with my grandparents? They’re eighty.”
“Which part surprises you? That I know how to play Bridge or that I play with people four times my age?”
Both. Bridge is not an easy game. I tried wrapping my head around the rules more than once. I gave up quickly, even though numbers are my forte.
“I like spending time with them,” she continues. “I like when Rita talks about the seven of you with so much love in her voice, and I like their stories about life in the fifties.”
She’s a college girl. Far from those my brothers got me used to, though. Other than a handful of smart, normal girls, they mostly bring home poster kids forstereotype. Those who care more about their appearance and getting attention from boys than anything else.
It’s fine, I guess. They’re young. That’s what youth is about—fun, but those types of girls only appeal to boys. They may be admired while at school, but once those years are over, boys become men. They want more than short skirts, immaculate makeup, and mind-blowing blowjobs.
“How did you join their group?”
“Well, Kenneth, who plays with them, is my neighbor. I help him with small chores, so we’re pretty close. When their fourth, Patti, fell ill last year, he asked if I could play with him and your grandparents just that once.” A sad grimace twists her lips. “Patti passed away a few days later. I’ve played every week since.”
“It’s unfair you know all about me, and I know nothing about you.”
She crosses her ankles, pulling her shoulders back. “I’m not interesting.”
“I very much doubt that.” Footsteps thump on the stairs, halting our conversation. I can’t help the hot ball of irritability swelling behind my ribs that our alone time was cut short. “Where are you heading tonight?”
“We’re still arguing about that.”
“We’renotarguing, Bug.” Cody arrives in a black tee and fitted jeans, his hair tied back in a low bun. “You’re just too stubborn.” He rests his fists on the stool, framing her thighs, and pecks the crown of her head. “Indulge me, okay?”
Mia starts the nervous ritual again, toying with her rings when Cody straightens up, lifting his chin at me in greeting.
“You promised we’ll go to the arcades,” she says. “You promised to show me how you cheat the claw machine.”
“I will, but first, you should practice. When I’m happy you can keep yourself safe, I’ll buy you ten damn teddies, alright?”
She rises to her feet, stepping away from the piano. “If I can break free, we’re going to the arcades. Go on. Grab me.”
She’s adorable.
Five-foot-nothing acting tough. It’s like watching a Yorkie pick a fight with a German Shepherd.
“Drop your hands,” Cody says, taking a firm stance behind Mia, the tension in his posture clearly visible.
Once she complies, he wraps himself around her ribs, clamping her arms against her body. It takes Mia two seconds to assess her position before she glances at me, taking Cody’s hand and bending his index finger all the way back. A pained grimace taints his features, and his hold loosens, allowing her to spin around and step on his foot.
