“Okay, fine. Message received. I can tell when I’m not wanted.”
“Hold on a damn minute.” Frankie studies me under a punishing scope. The force of her scrutiny locks my limbs in place. “You’re lonely.”
I scoff. “Try again.”
“No way,” she breathes. “That’s totally it. You want company, even if it’s mine. Who’s desperate now, big boy?”
“Careful,” I warn.
But she doesn’t listen. “Are you looking to add benefits to this… arrangement? After getting a feel in the alley, I could be easily convinced.”
A throb fondles my cock and my face goes up in flames. I leap off the chair like my ass is burning too. If her intention is to rattle me, she’s succeeding. There might be smoke wafting from my soles at the rate I’m tucking tail.
At the last second, ingrained charm gets the best of me and I tip my hat at her. “I’d say this was nice, but that’d be a lie.”
Frankie’s cackle chases me down the stairs. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Ablend of savory aromas pampers my nostrils as I inhale deeply. It’s mouthwatering and almost distracts me from the pressure brewing in my gut. Instead, the knot twists tighter until I struggle to breathe. My regular don’t-give-a-shit mode abandoned me as the sun was rising over the pastured horizon.
Byron notices my knee bouncing under the table. “Problem?”
I bite my lip and force my muscles to relax. “Nope, just hungry.”
Which is a big, fat, juicy lie. If we were eating turkey, my dishonesty would steal the spotlight from the main course. In truth, my nerves are cranked to the max as if I’m being questioned for murder charges. The jumble in my stomach suggests it’s worse than that.
And the why doesn’t make sense when I shift on the cushioned seat, trying to get comfortable. The three of us have shared many meals together at this point. Thanksgiving is a holiday and special occasion, but Byron and Ronnie aren’t treating it as such. Not that I have any clue what it looks like in a traditional format. But festive decorations didn’t explode all over the house. There isn’t a grand plan or five-course feast in sight.
The little girl hasn’t acquired a taste for roasted meat. Lasagna and garlic bread are on the menu. Our place settings are the same as usual aside from autumn-themed napkin rings that Ronnie made at school. It’s casual and chill, yet my heart is racing.
“There’s a rumble in my tummy,” Ronnie sings. “Gonna need somethin’ yummy.”
“Almost ready,” Byron says from the kitchen.
Baked cheese and Italian spices waft toward me after he closes the oven. His movements are practiced and collected. I envy that calmness. This is his natural environment and he’s strutting around like a proud peacock.
“Such a great dad,” I mumble under my breath.
Ronnie abandons her dolls, giving me her full attention. “He’s the bestest.”
Byron pauses while putting bread in a basket. “What’s that?”
Before his daughter can call me out, I reach for a distraction. “Want some salad?”
“Ooooh, yes! We worked super hard on it.”
I almost laugh. “You’re very good at mixing the ingredients together.”
“That’s ‘cause you cut ‘em up just right.” Ronnie mimics the fine act of chopping vegetables.
The urge to preen drops the tension in my shoulders and I’m able to scoop the salad without trembling. What can I say?My knife skills are worthy of praise. Byron doesn’t miss the opportunity to interject.
“Frankie is an expert at slicing and dicing. That’s how she gets the bad guys.”
The little girl stares at me like I invented sugar and puppies. “My superhero.”
And cue a fresh wave of jitters. It’s been a hot minute since she’s put me on that lofty pedestal. I’m definitely not deserving. But the stars in her eyes are bold and bright. Lopping off my own hand would be less painful than dulling her sparkle.
“You’re the sweetest,” I croon. “I’m a better person because of you, kiddo.”