“Didn’t say it was gross,” Blaze argues through a mouthful of…cereal? Yep, he has the box tucked under his arm, and the pair of them look like they’re hunkering down for the winter with the amount of food they’ve grabbed. “I’m just saying you could make us some junk food while you’re at it. Mom doesn’t have to eat it.”
Kacen kicks his brother in the rear as Blaze passes him. “I like the stuff Savannah makes. And you need to bulk up if you don’t want to warm the bench.”
“Junk food won’t help you do that,” I agree. “But I’ll make sure I add more protein-rich snacks to next week’s menu, if your mom is okay with it.”
“Give them whatever they want,” Mrs. Shafer says, the words a little garbled. She finally dug into the sorbet, I notice with a grin. She swallows. “If I have to listen to them complain about being hungry one more time…”
“It’s not my fault I’m always hungry!” Blaze argues and stuffs another handful of cereal into his mouth. He dumps his gathered snacks onto the counter and goes back to the pantry for more.
Kacen grabs the cheese ball I made from the fridge, reaches for a cracker, then changes his mind and uses his finger to scoop a giant hunk and stuff it into his mouth.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mrs. Shafer moans, watching her oldest inhale another bite of cheese, chased by an entire protein bar all at once. “Savannah, never have kids. And if you do, don’t have boys. They’re a nightmare.”
I laugh. “I’m going to work on building up my business first, and then I’ll consider adding a husband into the mix. We’ll have to see what happens after that.”
Do I want kids? Sure. My older sister’s kids, my niece and nephew, are spoiled stinkers but adorable, and they need cousins eventually. And there’s the whole biological clock thing, but I’m twenty-eight, not forty, and still have time. My mom would disagree, but she’s always been more traditional when it comes to a woman’s role in society. She hates that I moved across the country to pursue a career instead of settling down with some rich Southern beau the way my sister did.
Callie does some phenomenal charity work with her husband’s money, but that’s not where my passion lies. I wantto make it on my own, doing something I love with no one restricting what I can do with it.
Besides, Beef Wellington is turning out to be as much work as a kid anyway. We’re clearly in the teenage stage, with the way he scowls at me every time I walk into the room he’s in. I swear, ever since my little threat at the clinic, he acts like I’m not the best thing to ever happen to him when he’d probably still be at the shelter without me. Fur-Ever Homes told me he’d been there for a while.
“This is good, Sav,” Kacen says as he finishes off the cheese ball, licking the plate clean. Did he even taste it? He ate it so fast! “Make more of these.”
“I dare you to make double fudge brownies healthy,” Blaze says, narrowing his eyes at me in a challenge. But then his gaze drops to the table. “Wait, Mom, is that ice cream? I want some!”
As he darts forward and Mrs. Shafer cradles the sorbet against her chest like a precious treasure, I figure I should take my leave. I have some mediocre leads to follow and cold calls to make; my business isn’t going to grow itself.
Unfortunately.
“I’ll see you next week!” I call as I grab my oversized bag and head for the door. No one responds. When I look back, Kacen is now between Blaze and their mom, keeping the peace and—oh, no, he’s trying to get the sorbet too.Noted. Bring enough for everyone next time.
Snickering, I slip out the front door and wish I didn’t have to shlep so much stuff around as the straps of my bag dig into my shoulder. I try to use my clients’ appliances and utensils as much as I can, but Mrs. Shafer has never been much of a cook. Nor hasher husband. And while I’ve tried to teach the boys a few things, they’re too focused on lacrosse to care about the kitchen except for the food it provides, courtesy of me and frozen breakfast burritos they get from a grocery warehouse in town.
I should bring up the idea of prepping breakfasts for them too, but the last time I mentioned something six months ago, Mr. Shafer was convinced they could handle that one meal. I’m not sure he’s right. The boys eat lunch at school, and I assume their parents go out for lunch while at work, but breakfast is the most important meal of the day. And if Blaze wants to gain muscle, he should…
I stop halfway down the driveway, my eyes locking on a car parked across the street. It was there when I got here a little over an hour ago, which makes my stomach twist. First, no one’s allowed to park on the street in this neighborhood. Second, someone’s sitting in the driver’s seat.
And I’m pretty sure he’s watching the Shafers’ house.
Moving slowly, I grab my phone out of my pocket and work my way toward my car, pretending I don’t see the man in the street. I debate whether I should take a picture or call the cops, but instinct tells me to dial 911, since I can’t get a good view of the guy in the car. Still walking at a snail’s pace, I type the three numbers, only realizing that I should go back in the house andthencall the cops. I don’t want to alert the watcher and make him drive off.
I stop, pretend to realize I forgot something, and turn to head back inside.
The car door opens.
Panic washes over me at the sound, and I stumble forward while looking back at the person who’s coming to murder me now that I’ve seen him. Then I freeze, because Iknowthe man who pauses halfway out of his car and gapes at me with the same confusion I’m feeling. It’sLogan. Moxie’s beefy friend who got on the wrong side of a beefy cat’s claws and looks like he’s made entirely of muscle and irritation.
What is Logan doing casing a house in Studio City?
Chapter 5
Logan
“Whatareyoudoinghere?” I say as the spitfire from the clinic says the same thing. My eyes jump to the house behind her, panic rising in my throat. “Do you live here?”
She grips her phone tighter, and I don’t miss the numbers nine, one, and one glowing brightly on the screen. “Who’s asking?”
I fold my arms to hide my shaking fingers. This can’t be happening. “Obviously I am.”
