Boone follows my gaze to where Callie’s standing on her tiptoes, trying to clean chili off the overhead light fixture.
“Ah,” he says with a knowing grin. “I see the problem.”
“There’s no problem.”
“The problem is you’re staring at Callie’s?—”
“Finish that sentence and I’ll drown you in the mop bucket.”
“I was going to say ‘cleaning technique.’”
“Sure you were.”
“Although now that you mention it?—”
I grab the mop out of his hands. “Go help Wyatt.”
“But this is more fun.”
“Boone.”
“Fine, fine. But you might want to actually help her instead of just watching. That light fixture’s pretty high.”
He’s right. Callie’s stretching as far as she can reach, but she’s still a good six inches short of the chili splatter.
I walk over just as she’s giving up on her tiptoes and looking around for something to stand on.
“Need a boost?” I ask.
“I can handle it,” she says automatically.
“I’m sure you can. But I’m taller.”
“Being tall doesn’t make you better at cleaning.”
“No, but it makes me better at reaching things.”
She considers this for a moment, then steps aside. “Fine. But don’t make a mess.”
“I never make messes.”
She gives me a look that clearly says she remembers the chili fight from ten minutes ago.
“I never make intentional messes,” I amend.
I reach up and easily wipe away the chili splatter, then turn to hand her the paper towel. “See? Easy.”
“Thank you,” she says, and there’s something in her voice that sounds almost surprised, like she’s not used to accepting help.
“Anytime, pretty girl.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“And I told you we’re teammates now. Teammates have nicknames.”
“What’s Wyatt’s nickname?”
“Grumpy.”
