Page 46 of Chaos

Well, color me convinced.

Finn tells me dinner is ready with more conviction, barely waiting for my nod of acknowledgement before he’s gone. As his footsteps thump down the hallway below us, Luna pokes my arm. “What was that?”

I play the fool. “What was what?”

“The cold shoulder.” She pretends to shiver. “What did you do to him?”

“Why doIhave to have done something tohim?”

Luna shoots me a deadpan look.

Yeah. Fair enough.

“I didn't do anything.” Not really. Only because he started it. “He just doesn’t like me.”

“Now who on earth wouldn't anyone like you?” Luna teases, pinching my cheek before firmly patting it. “Fix it, kid. I don’t want any fighting at my wedding. Apologize. Or if he did something—’’ Which she very much doubts, I can see it in thosebright blue eyes. “—make him apologize. Swan around in that dress for a little while longer and I’m sure he will.”

And there I go again, grimacing at my reflection once more. “You’re never gonna get Grace into one of these.”

“I know. Everyone’s wearing something different.”

“Oh, so the slutty dress was specially picked for me?”

Luna smirks. “Exactly.”

My nephew hates me.

He hates me, and that’s why he’s chosen to fling an entire bowl of mashed Weetabix and berries at me.

There’s beige sludge all over my t-shirt.Undermy t-shirt. Splattered on my neck. I tip my head forward to survey the damage properly and a smushed blueberry plops onto the counter.

Of coursethat, the kid eats.

“Little man.” I sigh. “Not cool.”

Isaac Jackson-Evans looks exactly like his mother as he giggles—no, I swear, hesnickers.

Double-checking he’s securely strapped into his high chair, I turn to the sink and whip off my shirt, rinsing off the chunky bits of food before dipping into the laundry room next to the kitchen to chuck it in the washing machine. I snag a towel while I’m in there and use it to the clean myself off too, wetting it beneath the faucet and dapping at my neck while tutting at Izzy. Right as I’m bending over the sink to rinse off a particularly affected strand of hair, I hear the front door open.

Naturally. Because God forbid I be half-naked and covered in baby food with only the baby in question present to witness it.

Thanking my past self for at least putting on a decent sports bra before sloping downstairs to feed the tiny menace, I turn around, not even a little bit surprised when I find Finn rustling in the pantry because of course, it’s him.

I think I surprise us both, though, by muttering a, “Hey.”

I think he surprises us both too by saying nothing at all.

“Finn.” I cross my arms over my chest only to quickly uncross when I realize what that does to my tits—and then I cross then again when I consider a little obscene cleavage might help me out here. “C’mon.”

With as much enthusiasm as someone getting their teeth pulled, the man grumbles, “What’s up?”

“Are you done yet?”

That very defined jaw clenches, but still, he keeps his gaze on the bag of dried mango he snags from the pantry. “Done with what, Charlotte?”

Charlotte. Jesus Christ. “Ignoring me. Being all pissy.”

“Being all pissy,” he repeats through gritted teeth, raising his gaze, but to the ceiling, not to me. “Okay.”

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