Page 125 of Spicy Ever After
“You… sure?” she croaks, lifting her head to look over at me.
“Damn sure.” As far as I’m concerned, bringing Hattie home with me is the best possible outcome.
I pull into the Circle K parking lot and throw the truck into park. “Gonna get you a BioLite. What flavor do you want?”
“Not grape.”
I’m grinning when I leave my truck. “Not grape it is. Stay put. I’ll be right back.” I shut the door and pop the locks just in case, even though I don’t see anyone hanging around the convenience store.
When the cashier rings up my three bottles of BioLite—Berry, Citrus, and Lemon Lime—I shoot Margaret a text.
Me: I’m taking Hattie to my place. She doesn’t want to freak your mom out.
I pay and walk out, and my phone beeps before I’m back in the truck.
Margaret: And you think she WON’T freak if H doesn’t come home???
She has a point.
But I don’t ask Hattie about it because my girl is asleep when I get back to the truck. I know because she’s snoring the cutest little snore.
I text Margaret back.
Me: If they ask you where she is, tell them. She’s safe with me.
Fifteen minutes later, we pull up to the farmhouse and the porch’s motion light clicks on. I’ve got a 20/80 chance of getting Hattie upstairs without waking Pop. But even though the odds are against me, I try to be as quiet as possible, closing both truck doors with barely a click, which is harder than it sounds while trying to keep Hattie still and upright in one arm.
But my chances shrink to zero as soon as I get her through the front door.
“Is your… dad asleep?” Hattie’s voice is about twenty decibels above a whisper.
We’re standing just outside Pop’s bedroom door.
I put my lips next to her ear and whisper as softly as I can. “I hope so.”
She hiccups.
“Let’s get you upstairs.”
At first, she tries to climb them with my help, but she’s so wobbly, before we reach the landing halfway up, I sweep her into a bridal hold.
She gasps in surprise and then giggles. Pop heard that for sure.
Oh well.
I’ll be the first one to tell him this is worth it. Carrying her up to my room is a sugar rush.
Upstairs, I set her on the counter in the bathroom. “I’ve got a brand-new toothbrush, and you can take a shower if you want.”
“Yes to the toothbrush,” she says, then shakes her head, and the movement almost throws her off balance, even though she’s sitting and I still have hands on her. “No to the shower… for now.”
“Got it.”
I give her the toothbrush, but when she wrestles with the plastic packaging with no success, I hold out my hand.
“Can I help?”
Hattie nods and hands it over. “Not usually thi—” She hiccups. “This pathetic.”
