She packs the boxes anyway.
Aunt Susan’s weakness.
Everyone in this damn town knows it.
I take the boxes and drive straight to Jade’s house.
My hands actually shake when I get out. I hate that.
I should not be shaking.
I should not feel like a fifteen-year-old asking someone to prom.
But here I am.
On her porch.
Box in hand.
I knock.
Nothing.
I knock again.
The deadbolt clicks, and Susan opens the door just a crack. Her hair is pulled up, she’s in a flannel shirt, and she looks like she’s ready to fight an intruder with a frying pan.
Her eyes land on me, then on the box.
“You really think,” she says, slow and unimpressed, “that you can bribe me with baked goods to get to my niece?”
I lift one eyebrow and open the lid just enough for the warm, buttery, cinnamon-sugar smell to roll out like a siren song.
Her nostrils flare.
But she schools her expression fast. “Nope. Nope. Absolutely not.”
She shuts the door in my face.
I stare at the wood.
I knock again.
Nothing.
A third time.
The door cracks open an inch.
Her eyes narrow. “Leo.”
“Susan.”
“You’re persistent.”
“You’re home,” I say. “And Jade’s not. The neighbor said last night?—”
“She’s not here,” she cuts in.
