“Milo…” She pouts again, twisting in my hold. “C’mon, give me the tour.”
“You’ve seen the kitchen,” I say, gesturing around, before leaning in close. “Which, most would agree, is the heart of the home. So, I think that’s enough for today.”
“What if I takeonequick peek in your room and then—”
I shut her up with a kiss, swift and sweet. “No, nosy.”
Her lips curl into a smile as she blinks up at me. “Fine,” she says. “Thenyoudon’t get to read any of the poems I’ve written about you.”
My eyebrows rise on a disbelieving laugh. “You’re bluffing. This is a negotiation tactic.”
“No, that’s whatthiswas,” she says, lifting her skirt on either side of her hips as she walks away from me toward the front door.
“So, you admit it!” I shout after her, adjusting my shorts once again before I follow Prue down the hall.
Prue slips on her jacket as I put on my shoes, yelling her thank-yous and goodbyes in the direction of my siblings before we step out onto their porch, and I’m instantly reminded howquietit is outside of Nik’s four walls.
We walk to Prue’s car in moonlit silence, accompanied by the crickets, the breeze through the long grass, and an owl who seems to have found a home nearby.
“This is yours, right?” she says, lifting the hand I’ve already wrapped in mine to point toward Bertha.
“Yes, isn’t she magnificent?”
“She,huh?”
“Bertha,” I answer. “Want me to make introductions?”
“Why do I feel like this is more important to you than meeting your family?”
“Because you’ve got good instincts,” I say, leaning onto Bertha’s bumper. “Bertha, honey, this is Prue.”
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Does she usually talk back?”
“Only if she likes you.”
“Hi, Bertha,” she says, tapping a bumper sticker that readsMy Child Is Failing Elementary School.“I like youraccoutrements,” she says alongside a giggle.
“Yeah?” I say, moving to circle behind her. I move the hair off her shoulder and slot myself into the space it’d occupied. “Which is your favorite?”
She hums thoughtfully, admiring the view of my beloved van’s bumper. “Hmm…I think that one,” she says, pointing. “ChickenPot Pie: My favorite three things,” she reads. “Or…gosh there are so many good ones.” I press my smile into her shoulder. She giggles again, rocking in my hold. “But I like that one too,” she says, reaching out to touch the very first sticker I ever got.
Drive Safe, Somebody Loves You.
“Ah, boring,” I say, trying to push back even more of those pesky feelings I can’t seem to shake in her presence.
“There’s a story behind that one, isn’t there?” she says, turning in my arms to look up at me.
I think about telling her, I do. Truly, it’s not eventhatdeep of a story. I just can’t help but get emotional when I think of Nadia, so much younger and soangrywith me, handing it to me as I walked out of my parents’ home for the last time.
So, I do the next best thing that comes to mind. I mime taking a pin out from behind her ear and sticking it into that imaginary corkboard we’ve invented for us to share.
“Got it,” she replies.
I nod, walking her to the driver’s-side door of her truck. “Another time.”
“Are you driving?” she asks, one brow arched higher than the other.
“Killer, I’m being gentlemanly,” I say, opening her door and holding out a hand, inviting her to climb in. She blushes, as ifthatis the flirtiest exchange we’ve shared in the past few hours, and I close the door for her once she’s settled in her seat.
