“Me, either,” Scarlett said, smiling down at her. “Did you eat all of your dinner, Lil’ Miss?”
“I did.” She turned her big eyes on me. “So what does that make me, BRANDPOW?”
“Bella,” I said.
She clapped her hands, dancing around in a circle, feet stomping.
Mary and I had a deal. If she ate most of her dinner, I always promised her dessert. She was small for her age, too thin, and a really picky eater.Bellawas the word she chose for me to call her when she came close to cleaning her plate. Like any girl, she liked to be called beautiful, especially after she ate.
Scarlett handed Mary her dessert, and she ran out with the sweet booty, giggling evilly as she did.
I leaned out of the kitchen when I heard Mary snapping at one of her brothers. She was saying something about the dessert. It wasn’t theirs. “You can have a sucka!”
When Mary caught me staring, our eyes met, and the cream puff fell out of her sticky fingers. Not on the floor, though. Then we would’ve had a code red.
“Ooh, Brando caught the feels!” Scarlett almost sang. “And don’t worry. I had the restaurant add more to the order in case she dropped hers. Or someone else wants one.”
I turned back to Scarlett. “She's cute. And what the hell is ‘catching feels’?”
A grin stretched from ear to ear. “It means—you’re feeling life, Brando.” She waved her fork at me and then used it to draw a circle in the air. “I know how you do it. Charm all those women. But I’m glad that you onlydo itto me.” She stabbed the utensil forcefully.
She took a quick bite, chewed, and swallowed it down before she looked at me. Then she exploded with laughter—probably at the look on my face.
“Give me a bite of that salad,” I demanded.
“No,” she said firmly, scooting it away from me.
I blew out a hot breath from my nose, my nostrils flaring, going for her.
“It's mine!” She struggled against me when I wrapped my arms around her, attempting to reach for the salad.
“What's yours is mine,” I reminded her. “The Bible says so.” I squeezed her behind and she tried to squirm.
“It does not! You know damn well that it doesn’t. But I'll feed you anyway.” She scooted the salad close again. “Why do you want a bite? Rabbit food, remember?”
“I want to see if I need to have a talk with the chef. See if he's putting something untoward in the food. That mouth on you today.” I shook my head. “Or maybe you’re just titillating for me.”
Her mouth fell open. I wasn’t sure if it was the smooth use of the word “titillate” that did it, or the fact that I didn’t use the alternate, more blunt word. Mr. Fucking Subtle.That’s me.
Maggie Beautiful had been around, and when she wasn’t beating the streets with Aberto, she read romance novels. She left them all around the house. I might have picked one up and found the word.
I had to admit, the salad was damn good. It had huge, juicy artichokes, plenty of olives, Parmesan cheese, a lot of grilled chicken, and just the right amount of seasonings. I was a crouton man. These were fucking delicious. No wonder we made a killing.
I opened my mouth and Scarlett stuck another forkful in. Yeah, she was totally titillating for me.
The room grew quiet when Eunice came down the stairs. Scarlett and I peeked our heads out of the kitchen.
“I’m ready,” she announced.
The women had done her hair, helped her with makeup—I had never seen her wear makeup before—and Scarlett’s mother had brought over a dress. It was vintage, by the looks of it.
O’Sullivan rose from the sofa, hat rotating in his hands. “You look fine, Eunice. Just fine.”
I took “fine” as being a word that meant more in their day than ours. Or maybe it was the way he had said it. The truth rang loud and clear.
Eunice giggled and turned her head, batting her lashes.
“Huh. Imagine that. Eunice has lashes,” I said. She had always been like a grandmother figure to me. She seemed older when I was a kid.
