Page 4 of Insta [FAM]

MIKA

Speaking of Nyree, I need to call her if I’m going to be doing a welfare check on that bunny, I can’t take Aroha with me. Rather than text her while I’m driving, I drive home, make Aroha something to eat, and then call my sister. She answers on the third ring.

“Tuakana,” she greets. “Is something wrong?”

I rub the back of my neck, feeling contrite for having to call her on her weekend off. “Uh, yeah, think you can come over and watch Aroha for a few hours? I have to do an emergency welfare check on a bunny we had adopted out a few weeks ago, and—”

“We’ll be there in twenty,” she says, cutting me off. I hear her talking to someone, probably her boyfriend, Gabriel, and then, “It’s fine, Gabe and I are on our way.” I don’t know how I feel about her having a boyfriend yet. She’s twenty-one, but she’s still my baby sister. And what’s worse is that Gabriel happens to be a real standup bloke too. And he likes rugby, so… it’s a whole thing. Anyway, “Thanks, Ny. Dinner’s on me tonight, yeah?” It’s the least I can do.

“See you in a bit,” she chirps before ending the call. I find Aroha on the couch, watching — oh, Christ, — Moana. This kid is waxed with Netflix, but at least it’s on kid-friendly mode. On her account, at least. I have Netflix for grown-ups. We just never use it.

“Puawai,” — petal in Māori — “your whaea keke is going to come look after you for a few hours, I need to do something for work.” She looks away from the television, and tilts her head, her brows furrowed in concern. “Do you have to go save an animal again?”

“I need to go make sure an animal is okay, yes. But I shouldn’t be gone too long, and when I get back, we’ll have dinner with Nyree and Gabriel.” Her eyes light up because she adores my sister, and even Gabriel, who, I must admit, is good with my kid. “You’ll be a good girl for me, right?”

“Of course, Papa. You’ll be careful, right?” My chest aches from her question, it’s the same thing she asks me every time I get called out for an emergency. As much as she loves my sister, I’m her only parent, and sometimes, her fear of losing me rears its head. “I’ll be careful,” I promise, kissing the crown of her head. Nyree walks in five minutes later, with Gabriel in-tow, and after a quick greeting, I’m back in my pick-up, making the five-minute drive from my house in Chauncey Circle to Miss Spencer’s house in Heatherdell Road. I stop curbside, because her driveway is parked full, and hop out. I hear the noise from inside before I even get to the door. I knock twice, and hear a, “I’ll get it!” before the door swings open. A little girl, about Aroha’s age, looks up at me, and turns her head. “Mommy! A huuuuge man is here to see you!”

Someone shouts, “Close the fucking door before the bunny gets out!” and the little girl, who looks panicked, quickly slams the door in my face. I hear, “Where is she?” and “Find the fucking bunny!” Followed by, “Watch the wine bottle!” It sounds like I’ve come at a bad time, but I can’t exactly leave. Snickers echo through the entryway, making me shift on my feet. The door flies open again, hitting the adjoining wall, and a petite blonde steps into the doorway. Recognition dawns, and she all but scowls. “It’s you,” she snaps, pointing her index finger for emphasis. She’s so short, her finger comes just below my pecs.

“Well, let him in,” someone yells. “I want to see what the huuuuge man looks like, too!”

“Miss Spencer?” It’s a courtesy, using her name, because I recognize her, obviously.

“That’s me,” she huffs, putting her hands on her hips. It draws attention to her narrow waist, and the cut-off jeans she’s wearing. Her red-and-white striped top is knotted just above her belly button, revealing a sliver of her skin, and her shoulders are bare, too. I thought she was beautiful the first time we met, but now my thoughts are just plain ina-fucking-propriate. Because she’s pin-up-model gorgeous.

“I’m Mika —”

“I know who you are, and I know why you’re here, so you may as well come in.” She steps aside, and taps a bare foot. Jesus, even her red toenails are cute. Clearing my throat, I walk past, and find I’m the center of attention among three other women. The little girl who opened the door screams, and runs through the living room, while an older girl yells, “Mom! Tell Holly-Anna to leave my iPad alone!”

“How about you take your sister upstairs, Nelly, and get out of my face before I ground both your asses and have Zach babysit you for a week,” Dion replies, nonplussed by her daughter’s outburst. Nelly stomps her foot but does what her mother asks. I’m disappointed to see her go because now I have three women looking at me with varying degrees of interest, and no buffer. You’d think playing for New Zealand’s national rugby team means I’m accustomed to attention, but no, I hate it. I played for the love of the game, not because I enjoyed seeing my face on national television, and social media.

“So,” Dion turns to me, and looks up with defiance in her eyes, “are you here because of my Insta post?”

I glance between her, and the other women watching us. “Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

“Right here is just fine.”

Okay then. “I’m, uh, here to do a welfare check on the bunny you adopted from the Tarrytown Animal Shelter.”

“Oh, snap,” one of the women, a red-head, says, taking a sip of wine.“Is this the hot as fuck vet that’s had you in heat for almost a month?”

“Liv,” Dion hisses. “Not now.” She’s been talking about me?

“Oh, come on,” the brunette says, “you’ve been talking about him since you brought that bunny from hell home with you, and your description of him was sorely lacking because, je-sus.” I suspect everyone except Dion has hit the wine a little too hard.

“I need him on a book cover,” the red-head says, eyeing me from my messy man-bun, right down to my Superga sneakers. “He gives me Jason Mamoa vibes.”

“Right?” another blonde says, looking between Liv, and a raven-haired woman who has yet to say anything. “That’s exactly what I thought. What’s your name again?”

Dion waves her hands in the air. “Okay, okay, enough.” She faces me. “You should be checking on my welfare, never mind Lola bunny’s welfare. She’s a fluffy little satan, and it’s your fault I agreed to take her. You promised me she’d make a great house pet.” She deepens her voice at the end, trying, and failing miserably, to imitate me.

As if the little doe knows we’re talking about her, she hops out from behind the sofa. “See!” Dion yells, scurrying to catch the ball of fur. “She’s fucking Houdini too, she keeps getting out of her cage, and chewing all my cables.” I’m distracted for a moment when Dion bends at the waist, and I can’t help but blush when the blonde catches me checking Dion’s ass out. Fuck, I don’t blush, ever, but this entire situation is booby-trapped, no matter what I say, or do. Dion holds the doe at arm’s length, and unceremoniously hands it to me.

“There, you can have her back now because this mom,” she points at herself, “is done. If I order any more chargers for my MacBook and my iMac, the CEO of Apple will be able to retire early because of my purchases alone.”

Despite how uncomfortable I am — my brain keeps screaming Abort! Abort! Abort! — I’m still a professional, and an animal’s welfare is my first priority, which means, “I can contact the shelter and have someone come collect her now, if that’s what you want, or you can surrender her back to the shelter on Monday morning, and I’ll be sure to declare you unfit to care for any animal in the future.”

“Listen, Mika, if I can care for three humans, I’m pretty sure I can handle a freakin’ bunny.”