“Can you pick something, please? I’m getting a little motion sick.”
Brody stared at me in consternation. “I’m sorry?”
“You’re going through the channels so fast it’s making me dizzy.”
He studied me with wary eyes, as though he wasn’t quite sure if I was trying to be polite or if I was so irritated that I was fighting back the urge to yank the remote out of his hand and whack him on the back of the head with it.
If he voted for the second option, he’d be right.
Slowly, Brody held the remote out to me. “Maybe you can find something. None of these shows look interesting.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him how he would know since he didn’t watch any of them for more than the time it took to blink.
I bit the snarky response back and said, “Thanks.”
I’d just selected a show about game wardens in Texas when the doorbell rang. Brody was on his feet and heading for the door before I even put the remote down.
I got to my feet and followed him. I heard the door open and Jacks' piercing squeal. As I rounded the corner and came down the hall, I could see Brody kneeling on the floor, squeezing Jacks tight.
Monica stood behind them, her arms crossed over her chest. Even though it was a Sunday afternoon, she was wearing a pair of white slacks that belted at her waist and a severely tailored rose-colored blouse. The blouse had tiny white flowers all over it. Her dark brown hair hung to her shoulders in a sleek, shiny bob and stylish oversized black sunglasses covered the upper part of her face.
When she looked up and saw me, her entire body stilled. I couldn't see exactly what direction her eyes were pointed, but my skin burned so I was pretty sure it was because she was glaring at me.
I came forward and forced myself to smile. "Hi, Monica."
One of her eyebrows arched above the rim of her sunglasses. "Hello. Cameron, is it?"
I nodded and stopped a couple of feet behind Brody and Jacks. As I watched them, I couldn't decide what to do with my hands.
Brody straightened from his crouch and reached out to grasp the handle of Jacks' suitcase.
“Thanks for bringing Jacks home,” Brody said. “It sounds like she had a great time.”
Monica smiled but it was insincere. “No problem. I would love to be able to do it more often.”
I saw Brody’s shoulders tense infinitesimally.
“I’m sure we can discuss it sometime.”
Monica’s face shifted and once again I felt my skin practically blistering beneath her regard. “We definitely will.”
Shit. Fuck. Damnation. That sounded like a threat. And she was, without a doubt, staring me down.
Monica glanced down at her daughter. “I’ll see you soon, Jacqueline,” she said, leaning over to press a kiss to her forehead.
She said her daughter’s name with an accent, one I couldn’t quite place. Maybe French? It sounded more like Jah-clean rather than Jack-a-lyn as most Americans might say it.
Jacks made a face. “Mom,” she muttered.
Monica heaved an exasperated sigh. “I am not calling you by a boy's name, darling. You were named after your great-grand-mère.”
I held my breath to keep from laughing. It appeared Monica and Marilyn Murphy had something in common—a desire to be French. Monica’s family had been in Texas for generations. By now, the descendants of that family should be calling their grandparents Mawmaw and Pawpaw.
Jacks didn’t say anything else but I could see the defeated cast to her face and the way her shoulders drooped.
“Jacks, Cam has something to show you in the kitchen. Why don’t y’all go in there while I talk to your Mom for a minute?” Brody suggested.
Jacks nodded, gave her mother a quick hug and trudged down the short hall that led to the kitchen. I followed even though I really, REALLY wanted to know what Brody was going to say.
