Page 101 of Cloudy With a Chance of Bad Decisions

Easy.

The way only conversing with June or my dad had been before George and his dildo came along.

Most of the time, when I interacted with people it left me drained. I was good at talking, but that didn’t mean that social interaction didn’t take a toll. Work was easier than personal relationships. I found gatherings like this more tiring than my job, even if I used a similar skill set during both.

When friends had parties and I had no excuse not to attend, I always knew before I went that I’d be wiped out afterward. All day in preparation, I had to ration my energy to ensure I could last. Maybe it was a product of coming into money early in my life—or late, depending on who you talked to—but I had never quite figured out how to survive the social cost of being wealthy.

There was always something you were expected to do. A party you were expected to attend. A new trend you were expected to know. Keeping up was endlessly exhausting.

Talking to George didn’t feel like that.

It was easy.

And not once during our conversation did I ever feel like he was judging me, or growing bored, or lying to keep me on the hook. It was honest and genuine. The kind of conversation I had grown starved of the higher up I climbed in my father’s company and the more money my family accumulated.

At some point, we were swarmed by George’s nieces and nephews, as well as a few of my cousins. We got roped into helping them with their marshmallows, which wasn’t exactly how I’d expected the rest of our night to go—but was also better somehow. Because watching Georgie with children was…Christ. He was gorgeous.

Patient and stern and kind.

He listened intently to everything the children had to say. It didn’t matterhow serious, or mumbled, or incoherent. George found a way to validate and reply, all while creating some ridiculously sad, undercooked s’mores.

The kids didn’t seem to mind though, and one by one they scampered off with their treats. The line dwindled. Eventually, there was only one kid left for each of us. I split my attention between Patrick, the toddler, and his surprisingly hefty weight on my lap, and George and his niece, Mavis. As I stuffed a toasted marshmallow between a set of graham crackers, I smiled at Patrick, but kept an ear on George, eager to hear more of his quiet crooning.

He was so much softer with children than he was with adults.

Still his acerbic self, of course. But gentle too. Like it came more naturally and he could drop his guard. He didn’t expect them to hurt him. And why would they? Children, though sometimes accidentally brutal, rarely did things out of malice.

It was why I liked them too.

They were honest and innocent.

And they loved so very fiercely.

“See?” George said softly to Mavis, who could be most accurately described as a tiny blonde menace. “We want it just right, like I made yours. Not burnt.” George’s stick drifted too close to the coal and before he could pull it back, it burst into flame. “Oops.” He frowned, quickly pulling it out of the fire and next to his mouth. His pink lips parted, a gust of air putting out the flame. Obviously, I had a problem, because the gesture was nothing but innocent, and all I could think about was rubbing my dick in marshmallow and making him blow on it too.

“And if we get too close, that’s what happens. It goesboom!” Mavis cheered, like George had just performed a magic trick. Which I suppose he had.

“I wantmyshmallow to go boom,” Patrick, the three-year-old cousin on my lap, immediately blurted. Cousin maybe wasn’t the right descriptor. Second cousin, maybe? Whatever meant he was my cousin’s kid. Either way he was cute.

“It doesn’t taste as good that way,” George warned him.

“I beg to differ,” I argued, deliberately sticking my stick right next to the coal so it would catch aflame. “The more char the better. Black like my heart.”

“That’s because you’re apparently a pyromaniac,” George retorted. “With bad taste.” To which Mavis gleefully agreed. “See? Even Mavis thinks so.”

“Mavis doesn’t know what that even means,” I teased back.

“I don’t.” Mavis giggled her head off.

“See?” I grinned, and George glowered. His lips were twitching though, betraying his own amusement. Mavis and I had interacted a lot over the last few years. I remembered when she was still round as a baby seal and unable to do more than make noise. I wasn’t friends with her mom or anything, but Roderick’s and George’s families were close—which meant by extension I had spent a lot of time with most of them, children included.

It was probably why they were all on board with the matchmaking subplot.

Maybe they could see how damaged he was too.

Maybe they’d known I wouldn’t hurt him.

“Have you ever eventrieda burnt marshmallow? Because if you haven’t you have no leg to stand on,” I teased, steadying my roasting pole and watching George do the same.

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