SEVEN
Colby
If I overthought things the way I usually did, I might assume that Rip had been flirting with me and freaked himself out and that’s why he’d dropped the conversation.
But I knew better.
He’d truly meant what he said in that text. He wasn’t a flirt, he was all business, straight to the point, even though I was momentarily stunned at his ability to fire back responses so fast. Did the man even work?
I smiled to myself. At least he had given me an apology, or a Rip apology. In all honesty the texts had made my day until—
Well, until he felt the need to explain how big his balls were. I’d half expected him to follow up with some mathematical equation explaining just how huge.
God, I bet he even got hot when a woman used terms like tax compliance.
I shuddered.
“Aunt Colby?” Viera tugged on the hem of my hoodie. “I hungry.”
Shit.
I’d planned on going to the store but had been sidetracked by a toxic diaper, and other than cereal and fruit snacks there wasn’t really much in the house to eat.
As much as I didn’t want Rip judging me with that pompous sneer he had down perfectly, I pulled out my phone and DoorDashed some McDonald’s.
“Chicken nuggets OK?” At least I was good at one thing, right? Using food apps. I wondered if that would hold up in a Rip argument. I mean, could he order from four different apps at the same time while monitoring the driver’s progress and texting them specific instructions on where to leave said food?
I think not!
I set my cell faceup on the counter, then picked up Viera and sat her next to it. Her little legs dangled off the hard, sticky granite. “Your nuggets are getting made right now!”
She scrunched up her nose. “How they make nuggets, Aunt Colby?”
I gave her a serious look. “A nugget maker, of course.”
“Ohhhhhhh.” She nodded vigorously, her pretty brown hair grazing her shoulders. “What it look like?”
“Ummmm, like a chicken… stamp.” I winced. “But bigger! So they can make more than one at a time.”
There, that sounded like something McDonald’s would do, right?
Her eyes went wide as saucers. “They stamp the chickens?”
“Oh, sweetie! Don’t worry, the chickens are already dead.”
Her lower lip quivered.
“No, no, no, no.” I knew that look; it was the look of a three-year-old about to let loose. “Viera, I’m just kidding, the chickens are alive! They’re all alive on a farm, living happy and chirping and—”
“CHICKEN NUGGETS ARE ALIVE?” she shrieked.
Oh dear God.
The front door slammed just as Ben walked in and covered his ears. My only saving grace was that today was jujitsu, and it had been Jake’s mom’s turn to take them after school, then return Ben back home.
“Viera!” he yelled, throwing his gear across the hardwood floor. “Stop screaming!”
Now both kids were yelling.