“You’re welcome, sweetie.”
By six thirtywe’re in the kitchen. Ben is eating herconchiglie al burrolike a tiny queen. Her curls are perfect. I’m exhausted and my knees hurt and I need approximately seven gallons of coffee.
Rosa appears from a side room like a fairy godmother. “You did good with her hair.”
“Thanks. I was terrified I’d mess it up.”
“You didn’t.” She sets a mug of coffee in front of me. “Isotta would have liked you.”
The words hit harder than they should. I wrap my hands around the mug and try to think of something appropriate to say.
Before I can, the front door opens.
Ethan’s voice carries through the house. “Jag? You here? I left my hoodie in your car.”
Oh no.
My brother appears in the kitchen doorway. He’s still in his paramedic uniform. Night shift. He looks tired but grins when he sees Ben.
“Hey kiddo. Nice curls.”
Ben beams. “Jess did them.”
“Did she now.” His eyes land on me. That big brother assessment look. “So the snail’s on hair duty now?”
“Frederick is multitalented,” I reply, gesturing to the plush sitting on the counter next to Ben.
Ethan crosses to the coffee maker. Pours himself a cup without asking. Because of course he does. This is his best friend’s house. He’s probably been doing this for years.
Meanwhile I’m the newbie trying not to breakanything.
He leans against the counter. Studies me. “You look beat.”
“It’s six thirty in the morning and I’ve already done advanced curl maintenance. Exhaustion is earned.”
“Fair.” He takes a sip. When Rosa walks out, he leans closer and lowers his voice. “Now how’s it going? For real.”
I glance at Ben. She’s focused on her pasta. Not listening.
“Good,” I say quietly. “She’s great.”
“And Marco?”
My face goes nuclear. “What about him?”
“Has he been weird?”
Define weird.
Does nearly kissing me over a notebook count?
“He’s been professional,” I say instead.
Ethan narrows his eyes. “Professional.”
“Yep. Very professional. Super professional. The most professional.”
“You’re doing the thing again.”
