Page 118 of Mr. Infuriating

“Okay, okay!” He dropped them with a grin. “But I just want to be on record as saying, I think you’re a moron.”

Yeah, you and me both, little brother.

Chapter Forty-Six

Gretchen

Jake was confused by the state of our kitchen when we’d gotten home. Gabe and Beau had removed almost all the cabinets except for one small section with the kitchen sink and the island.

“Where go, mama?” my son asked with his hands open as he looked around the kitchen.

“We’re getting new cabinets, baby. Here, let me show you.”

I took his hand, and we went out to the garage where I pulled the foam wrap off the cabinet my dad had inspected when they were first delivered.

They really were beautiful.

I swept my hand out to gesture to all the cupboards in the third stall of the garage.

“These will go in our new kitchen.”

“Okay. I play Elmo now?”

There were advantages to the short attention span of a two-year-old.

Laughing, I ruffled the hair on his head.

“You can play Elmo now.”

I was confident he’d be asleep in minutes since it was way past his naptime. I’d purposefully stayed away from the house until an hour after Brayden’s game was supposed to start.

I knew the reprieve was going to be short-lived, since they were coming over tomorrow. But at least I had a day to lick my wounds.

And with any luck, some cheesecake to help ease my pain.

~~

I woke up the next day filled with nervous energy.

I knew who Brayden Mitchell was. Yes, I’d purposefully found out once I’d done the deed with his dad, and I observed him in the hall between classes. There was no denying he was Gabe’s son. The Mitchell genes were strong.

I was a little concerned he was going to think his dad and I were dating and cop an attitude with me while I tried to tutor him. I guess I’d find out soon enough.

Wayne had filled me in about Brayden’s abilities once I told him I was going to be tutoring the young man.

“He’s a good kid.”

That didn’t surprise me. He had Gabe for a role model.

“His overall reading comprehension seems good, but he’s struggling with poetry and literary devices—especially symbolism.”

That wasn’t unusual. Seventh grade boys were not known for their love of poetry, and, let’s face it, males at any age weren’t exactly known for their ability to read between the lines.

“And his essay writing is abysmal.”

Okay, so at least I knew where to start.

When the doorbell rang Sunday afternoon, I was ready to face whatever lay in store for me.

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