Page 44 of Fight Or Flight

Ben popped his little face from behind the door. “Timbits!” he yelled.

Natalie jumped back, startled, and had to bite back the curse that nearly slipped out.

“You can have one now,” Chelsea called to him. “But the rest are for our pyjama party.”

He sagged against the door, but his smile stayed in place. He looked up at her. “You’re coming to the pyjama party, right?”

“Uh . . .”

His eyes widened to saucers, and his smile dropped.

“Yes. I’ll come. Count me in,” she said, patting his little head and hoping that would make the smile return.

It worked.

His face melted back to its happy state, and Natalie breathed a sigh of relief.

“Come on, you two,” Chelsea said, walking past them on the porch and into the house. “Bedtime is seven, so the party starts at four. We’re ordering pizza.”

Ben threw his hands in the air. “Pizza!” he shouted as he ran after the box of Timbits. She was certain this was the cutest kid that ever existed, wondered what he’d looked like when he was a baby. And wondered how Chelsea was managing raising a kid while being in film school.

She glanced over at the clock. Two in the afternoon. There were still a couple more hours of Monroe pickups to deal with. She closed the door behind her with a smile on her face. Whoknew she’d actually look forward to a pyjama party with a four-year-old?

Only one problem. She didn’t own pyjamas.

At three thirty in the afternoon, Natalie slipped into an old nightgown she found in Elizabeth’s dresser drawer. She had ten to choose from, each more horrifying than the last. She wasn’t sure what was more out of character for her—wearing an old lady nightgown, putting on pyjamas at three thirty in the afternoon, or just having pyjamas on at all.

She usually wore nothing to bed when she was on tour and staying in private hotel rooms. In between tours, at hostels, she slept in her bra and panties. Pyjamas were the first thing to go from her suitcase.

She’d selected the least horrifying option, a stiff white cotton nightgown that covered every inch of her skin, besides her face, hands, feet and ankles. It would have come down to Elizabeth’s toes, but Natalie was a few inches taller, so it stiffly stuck out in a ring six inches off the floor. She looked in the mirror and stared at her dreadful reflection until the frilly lace and pink rosettes strangling her neck started tickling her jaw.

How did Elizabeth sleep in this?

She’d considered taking scissors to it, probably would before eating, but she figured it would get a laugh out of Ben and Chelsea. And after the afternoon they’d had, they could all use a laugh.

Having Chelsea and Ben there had made dealing with the three Monroes that afternoon more bearable. Chelsea seemed unaffected by their horrible comments and disgusted attitudes, and Ben was downright delightful. He was bright and curious and had the most addictive laugh. He’d even brought a brief,albeit strained, smile to Hattie Monroe’s face, and Natalie suspected that face hadn’t turned joyful in at least two decades.

She was smiling as she left her room and walked down the stairs. She couldn’t wait to get his little pyjama party of three started. It was so opposite of her normal, she almost felt as if she was on vacation. Eating pizza, drinking a juice box, watching a kids’ movie, and tucking little Ben into his bed was the perfect way to unwind after a day.

She found Ben in the living room in his little superhero pyjamas, complete with cape, and Chelsea in her flannels. They were cuddled up on the old couch, with the movie ready and waiting on the screen.

“Nat, can you grab the—” Chelsea stopped midsentence when she turned enough to take in Natalie’s nightgown. A second passed before she burst into laughter. “Ben, look at Aunt Natalie!”

Ben’s eyes bugged out, and he let out a little giggle. “You look so cool!”

Chelsea let out a snort through her laughter.

Natalie tried to look annoyed but failed miserably. “I like your definition of cool, my man.”

He jumped up and inspected the lace sticking out around her wrist. “You look like the big bad wolf in grandma’s bed.”

Chelsea bent over laughing and wiped at the tears coming down her cheeks. “She looks like one of the Golden Girls.” The remark came in fragments through her laughter.

“I did this for you.”

Ben’s squeaky laughter ceased just long enough for him to say thank you.

A knock on the door split into their laughter. Chelsea wiped her eyes again. “That must be the pizza,” she said, then frowned in the clock’s direction.

---