Page 18 of Someone to Hold
“Yeah, she told me to tell you she’s making dinner.”
Shit. “I should be helping with that.”
“Probably,” Laurel agrees but continues to pet the horse.
“Maybe we should both be helping.” I glance down at my dusty clothes and decide fresh ones will have to wait. “What’s for supper?”
“Spaghetti,” Laurel says. “With Mom’s homemade sauce.”
“Your mother made homemade sauce?”
“A while ago. She got it from the freezer.”
“Is your mom a good cook?”
Laurel lets out her own sort of snuffle. “Duh, she’s the best.”
“I can’t cook for sh...” The kid’s eyes cut to me when I stop mid-curse word. But, hell, I stopped. “I’m a terrible cook, but I’m a pro at dishes.”
She’s quiet momentarily and then says, “Mom doesn’t like to admit she needs help, but she does.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” I assure her, thinking this isn’t going to be quite as hard as I thought. I don’t know what my sister and Ray and Janice were talking about. Laurel and I are getting along like peas and carrots, which is a great start. There’s a decent chance the whole thing will be easy-peasy.
6
CHASE
Easy-peasy.Famous last words.
Thirty minutes with Molly’s kids, and I’m convinced that willingly climbing onto the back of an angry bull isn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Wrangling seven-year-old twins and not pissing off their gorgeous mother is proving to be a challenge way beyond my limited capabilities.
Turns out, Luke and Laurel could give a rat’s ass about my sneer or anything else I do to bring order to their particular brand of upheaval. The girl seemed sweet when we were together in the barn, but once we got back to the house, it became even clearer that she takes after Teddy in looksandpersonality. One moment, she’s charming and fun-loving. The next, she’s screaming at her brother like a feral cat with its tail caught in a door.
Luke’s emotional state is perpetually tuned to the high anxiety station. I stopped counting after the fourth time he burst into tears, prompted by a pointed word or look from his sister. Laurel also inherited the ability to push buttons from her father. For all his winsome charm, Teddy could cut a person off at the knees with his casual criticism.
“You’re doing it wrong!” Laurel’s voice pierces the air as thetwo of them sit at the coffee table drawing something for a school assignment. “That’s not how farm animals are supposed to look.”
Luke’s bottom lip trembles. “I like them this way.”
“It’s stupid,” she declares, and just like that, the waterworks start again.
Molly keeps insisting she has things under control if I need to continue getting settled.
“You really don’t have to stay,” she says for the third time, her voice tight with obvious exhaustion. “You probably have better things to do.”
I don’t know why she’s under the impression I need to spend hours feathering my nest. Or maybe she simply doesn’t want an audience as she struggles to handle the chaos swirling around her like a tornado. I can also relate to her determination to get by with the most minuscule amount of help possible.
The farmhouse kitchen isn’t big to start with, and Molly seems to have the turning radius of a semi on those crutches. There are about six different times I think she’s going to land on her ass. And that’s before she grabs the saucepan handle without a potholder and ends up spilling half of it down the front of the stove and herself.
Tomato sauce splatters across the white tile countertop like abstract art, and I watch her shoulders sag. The wet T-shirt business might have been unintentionally hot, but another ruined shirt just makes me feel sorry for her. It’s obvious she’s on the brink of a total meltdown when she doesn’t argue after I suggest she go to her room to change.
I find a jar of sauce in the cabinet to mix with what’s left in the pan, then manage to get the pasta, bread, and a bagged salad onto plates at the table before she returns. I’m damn proud of myself, until Luke starts blubbering again because the red sauce slides into his lettuce.
“It’s all going to the same place,” I tell him. “They’re just getting to know one another before they hit your stomach.”
“He doesn’t like his food touching,” Laurel explains with the patience of someone who’s had to translate her brother’s quirks a thousand times before.
“Do you cry like this at school?” I ask.
