“We aren’t traitors,” Lindy says. “We’re just telling you what we see. A nice guy?—”
“A spicy piece of eye candy,” Mom says.
And Lindy nods. I feel like I’ve stepped into the twilight zone. “Yeah, a hottie who is sweet enough to entertain Wyatt and his friends. How are you the only single girl in the room and not drooling, Mags?”
Eighteen
I cover my mouth,watching as Lucca sets both hands on a blindfolded Wyatt’s shoulders, pointing him in the exact right direction of that soccer ball piñata.
I drop my hand from my mouth. “A piñata may have been a bad idea,” I say to myself.
“Ya think?” Sarcasm drips from Lindy’s lips like honey.
I peer over only to see Mom, Dad, Brent, and Lindy all glued to the scene.
It shouldn’t be this scary. Except that our Wyatt has the coordination of a bull in a shop of glass bobbles.
He swings the bat, and while Lucca is behind him and has pointed him in the right direction, the man still has to jump, arching his back to keep the bat from connecting with his middle. He peers over at me, as if I put Wyatt up to almost hitting him.
Everyone’s had a turn but Wyatt—they’re all waiting for the birthday boy to smash that piñata the rest of the way open. It’s cracked. It’s close. We just need one more little hit. But Wyatt’s blind aim may injure a professional soccer playerrather than bust open the candy treasure for him and his friends.
I’m not going to lie and say I wouldn’t love to see that happen. Except—I can’t let that happen. I could lose my job all over a six-year-old’s birthday party.
“Maggie,” Lindy moans, though she does nothing to stop the scene before us.
When Lucca jumps out of the way again, I step up.
“Whoa,” I call. Sneaking in, I snag the blindfold from Wyatt’s eyes. That wasn’t my best idea anyway, blindfolding an already awkward six-year-old.
“Is my turn over?” Wyatt asks, blinking in the sunshine.
“No.” I stuff the handkerchief into my back pocket. “You’re the birthday boy. You have to break that thing open. But you get to see while you’re doing it.”
“Oh,” he says. “Okay.” He holds that bat like he isn’t a train wreck on two feet and swings. The bat swipes beneath the dangling papier-mâché ball and spins clear around, along with Wyatt’s body. This time, both Lucca and I stumble back and out of the way of the bat.
“Lethal,” Lucca says.
“Buddy, keep your eyes open and look right at that soccer ball. Give it one short whack, okay?”
Wyatt grins. “Okay,” he says, obliviously happy as can be.
“Or,” Lucca says, wrapping one arm around Wyatt’s middle and picking him up.
Wyatt giggles.
With his free hand, Lucca holds the bat just above Wyatt’s grasp. “Together?” he says.
“Let’s do it.” Wyatt swings his legs. A little to the right, and Lucca Cruz would not be reproducing.
One smack with Lucca at the helm and the teetering soccer ball breaks open. Candy and hacky sacks that resemble littlesoccer balls fall to the ground. Lucca sets Wyatt on his feet, and we watch as his friends grapple for the treats, filling up the bags I gave them.
Wyatt stands back with Lucca and me. “We just needed the strength of two soccer players, Aunt Maggie.”
“Yep.” I sigh. “That’s what we needed. Go get some before it’s gone, and then we’ll have your banana cake.” Somehow Mom talked him out of eating pie today.
Wyatt scurries off, and before I can retreat, Lucca is talking to me. When did the man get so chatty? Until a few weeks ago, I got nothing but scowls and gripes from him.
“Where’s”—he pauses—“your sister?”
