Arthur shoulder bumped him, coming back to the sizzling barbecue. “I’m not taking advice from you,” he retorted. “How long have they been on?” he asked Darcy.
Brandon harrumphed and stalked away. Arthur’s lips curled up.
“Only need about a minute more.”
Gretchen came over with an empty tray. “The mob’s getting restless.”
“It’s coming right up,” he said and filled her tray.
Sometime later, after the children had been fed, they moved over towards the shed where someone, probably Matt or Brandon, had built a fire in the fire pit. It now burned low, and the children sat around it on logs toasting marshmallows.
Or rather, burning them to ash. Arthur shuddered as another marshmallow went up in flames and the girl blew it out, gingerly taking the blackened goo off the long stick and shoving it into her mouth.
Gretchen sat down beside him. “You’re not a fan of marshmallows?”
His father wasn’t around to hear him now. “I love them.”
“Then why the grimace?”
“Have you seen how they’re toasting them?” He pointed as Jordan slipped an equally black glob from his fork.
Gretchen laughed. “Isn’t the charred outside the best bit?” She placed a fresh marshmallow on her stick and stuck it right in the middle of the coals. It burst into flames and she grinned, pulling it out and blowing on it until the flames subsided. Then she touched it, checking its heat, and slipped it into her mouth. She closed her eyes. “So good.”
Lust shot through him, as she moaned her appreciation and licked her lips.
Amy sat on the other side of Gretchen. “Have you shown them how it’s done yet, Arthur?”
He glanced at her, surprised she remembered.
“He makes the best toasted marshmallows,” Amy continued and handed him a long fork and the bag of marshmallows. “Will you make me one?”
Their eyes met and her hopeful expression took him back to their childhood, to the few rare times they’d been somewhere with an open fire and their father hadn’t been around. They’d always toasted marshmallows then.
He wanted more good times with her. “Sure.” He smiled a little tentatively and placed a marshmallow on the end.
Arthur turned his attention to the fire. He held the fork above the flames, turning it slowly, making sure each section got its share of heat before rotating it. The trick to a perfect marshmallow was a light browning on the outside and a deliciously melted inside. It might take a little longer, but it was worth it. After a few rotations, he pulled the fork away and offered the marshmallow to his sister.
Reverently, she slid the sugary treat from the end and popped it in her mouth. She sighed, pure pleasure, and after she swallowed, she said, “Thank you. I could never get the knack.”
“You were never patient enough,” Arthur responded.
She grinned. “True.”
“Will you toast me one?” Gretchen asked. “That looked so good.”
He toasted another marshmallow and, when it was done, he handed it to her.
Gretchen groaned. “Oh my God. You’re right. It is so much better.”
Her groan had him imagining her under him, sliding his hand up her side to her breast. He blinked. Not appropriate, especially not considering the setting. Arthur cooked himself a marshmallow and then tried to hand the fork to Georgie, who sat next to him.
She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, no you don’t. You’re officially the chief marshmallow cooker now. I’ll take two please.”
A thrill filled Arthur. Useful with a skill no one else had. One his father would consider useless, but everyone here appreciated. He nodded to Georgie and kept cooking.
“Story time!” Lara called when the marshmallows were gone. “Who can tell the scariest ghost story?”
As the kids all sat straighter, eyes wide, Faith said, “No scary stories at all, otherwise you’ll never sleep tonight.”
