Kill me nowww.
34
CARWYNN
Pancakes.
I freakingloveeedpancakes! Their smell, the pillowy texture, how soft they feel smushed against my cheek, the way they made the muscles in my jaw sore from struggling to chew them . . .
David had tired bags under his eyes. He just stared, watching me drunkenly shovel pancakes into my mouth.
“For god’s sake! Take smaller bites, Carwynn! You’re going to choke!” he scolded. His hands braced the countertop, preparing to leap across at any moment.
Wyatt snorted, flipping another on the stove.
“Ah. This brings back memories from her early college days.” He directed an amused smile at David, plopping another heavenly flapjack down on my plate.
David rolled his eyes.
“Thunkkk yooo!” I managed, words coated in sticky syrup.
With a deep chuckle, Wyatt planted a kiss on my head. “Anytime, hun.”
Suddenly, the clink of metal on glass clawed at my ears.
Honey appeared, sitting on the counter with a plate in his pudgy hands. The pancake pieces were magically cut up into tiny, perfectly bite-sized pieces. He jabbed at them with the fork, ever the toddler spearfishing.
Clink! Clink! Clink!
I swallowed, clanking my fork down. My finger fired out, pointing at him in a curse.
“You!” I narrowed my eyes. “How can somethingsoooooocute . . . be such a little shit!”
Honey’s face lit up, beaming. He shoved the fork into his mouth with an overly dramatic chomp, chewing with his mouth open. When his eyes met mine, he scrunched his face into a teasing snarl, shaking it back and forth.
“Menace,” David muttered under his breath. “If I have to replace that doorbell one more time—you’re going to be banished from this house!” Scolding tone dissolved mid-threat into a yawn.
“Yeah!” I chimed in, utensil held high like a weapon of justice, a show of drunken solidarity.
David whipped around, finger extended like a loaded gun.
“Don’t even get me started with you!”
Shots fired.I recoiled and slowly dragged a glass of water to my lips with exaggerated innocence. My eyes darted away.
Don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye contact. . .
It was a doomed strategy.
“Care to share with us how you ended up here? In the middle of the night, a sotting mess, dressed like a—” He paused, wincing when his gaze landed on my traitorous dress. “A lady of the night!”
I waved a hand down the lace on my arm.
“It’s Si-chic, David! Otherwise known asfashion.” I pointedmy thumb accusingly toward the little turd on the counter. “He’s the kidnapper who dropped me on your doorstep. Then played ding-dong ditch.”
Honey feigned sleep, despite the fact his mouth was still chewing.
“No,” David pressed. “Before he brought you here.” He speared Honey an exasperated glare. “Menace he may be, but he never does anything without reason! A reason he’s currently refusing to share with me . . .”
