Page 103 of Delayed Penalty

But he says it in a way that most certainly tells me he willnotbe doing so.

“Fine. Then I’m driving to Thanksgiving dinner and I’m usingmycard to fill up the gas tank.”

“Fine.”

He marches over to the SUV that, only if theinformation were tortured out of me, I’d admit I’m going to miss driving around and pulls Flora’s booster seat from the back, then buckles it into the back of my cherry-red VW Bug.

He nods toward my car. “Get in, kid. Don’t want to be late for dinner.”

She picks up the cat. “PickleslovesThanksgiving. She’s so excited to eat turkey.”

“You’re not bringing the cat.”

“But Mrs. Bess said I could.”

“She did not.”

“Actually,” I interject, “she did. In fact, she said, ‘Now you make sure to bring Pickles to dinner. I want to snuggle that sweet little baby.’”

It’s a lie.Iwas the one who told Flora my mother said she could bring the cat, mostly because I know my mother won’t care at all if she brings Pickles along.

Hayes huffs. “Then bring the damn cat. But we have to go, especially if we’re stopping for gas.”

“And dessert,” I call over the hood of the car as I make my way to the driver’s side.

“What dessert?”

“Cookies,” I explain as I take my spot behind the wheel.

He looks completely confused but opens the door for Flora—and Pickles—then climbs in behind us. Hedoesn’t say anything else until we stop in front of George’s.

“You’re kidding me.”

I shrug as I parallel park the Bug effortlessly. “Trust me, this is exactly what she expects.”

“For you to bringsomeone else’scookies into her home for Thanksgiving dinner when she’s been sweating over the stove all morning?”

“Yep.”

“You’re horrible.” He pouts in the front seat as I exit the car and run inside George’s.

“You fixed it!” the old man calls from behind the counter as I run toward the back.

“Hayes did!”

I snatch up a box of butterscotch cookies, then think better of it and grab two because I just know it’s going to be a long day. When my mother found out Hayes hasn’t had a proper Thanksgiving in far too long, she was not having it. She insisted he and Flora come to ours, and I won’t lie, it made me love her even more. They both deserve this, to have some good homecooked food and to feel my mother’s love.

“How’d he do it?” George asks as I approach the counter, but not before tossing a bag of butterscotch candies onto the cookies.

“Apparently,” I say as I dig through my purse for the wallet I know I shoved in there, “he used his big,broad muscles that look far too good in a shirt and threatened them or something.”

George doesn’t say anything, which is incredibly unusual. I peek up to find him staring down at me, his bushy white brows nearly kissing his hairline.

“What?” I hand my card over. “Can I get some cash back too? Twenty bucks in small bills. I owe Flora five dollars because I bet her uncle would cave and let her bring Pickles to dinner.”

He still doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even move to grab my card. He just stares.

“Uh, Earth to George.” I wave my hand in front of his face. “You’re not having a stroke, are you?”

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