Bad Things(3)

I shushed Dot, hugging Mat back. He was a skinny blond kid with gorgeous blue eyes.

“You said you’d make us cookies when we got back!” Mat told me excitedly.

I nodded. “Okay. You gonna help me make them, or you want to go play while I cook?”

“Play!” he shouted. I didn’t know if it was Mat, or being six, but the boy had a serious volume control issue. It just made me laugh.

“Okay. I bet you’ll be able to smell when they’re done.”

“Yes!” he shouted, even louder, then took off for his room.

Ivan straightened, looking around at all of the adults and pursing his lips. He had light brown hair, was tall for his age, and had soft brown eyes like his dad. He was a funny kid. He had moments of being a shameless brat, but just as many moments of absolute charm. “I want to play, too, Danika, but I’ll help you if you really, really need me to.”

I smiled at him. “I got it covered, buddy. You go on and play.”

He took off, never saying a word to his dad or to Tristan. Typical eight-year-old, only paying attention to the one making cookies.

Beverly and I shared a look. She gave her boys a laughing eye roll before heading the same way they’d gone, towards her bedroom. She’d barely spared Tristan a glance. It wasn’t a good sign.

“Jerry, a word,” she called out, still moving toward her room. It didn’t bode well.

He swore under his breath, but followed her.

I headed over to the kitchen. I felt Tristan following me.

The house was set up with an open floor plan. It was huge, but the entryway, living room, dining room, kitchen, and family room all shared one massive space, so it was a straight shot into the kitchen once I got around the giant L-shaped sofa that dominated the living room.

The house was a strange combination of shabby chic, leaning way further in the direction of shabby. Beverley was very successful as a worker’s compensation attorney, and she came from a rich family, so money wasn’t an issue when it came to the house. It was colossal, and in one of the nicest gated communities in Vegas, but the house was lined with outdoor carpeting and the furniture was in desperate need of an update. The only saving grace in the house was the spectacular artwork that she collected. Words couldn’t even express how much I appreciated her fine eye for upcoming artists, but they were the only saving grace when it came to the house’s aesthetics.

I understood why she didn’t update a lot of it. New carpet would be ruined in just a few weeks by her unruly dogs and crazy kids, and the dark green leather sofa had the entire back gnawed off. I couldn’t imagine a new sofa wouldn’t receive the same treatment.

I had to unlock the latch that had been installed on the side of the refrigerator before I opened it. Mango liked to eat sticks of butter when it wasn’t latched tight…

I pulled out a plastic tube that was filled with chocolate chip cookie dough. I heard a clear, disappointed groan behind me.

I turned to look at Tristan, arching a brow at him. “What? You don’t like chocolate chip?”

He shook his head at me, still showing off one dangerous dimple in a half smile. I really wished he’d put those dimples away. They were counter-productive to my peace of mind.

“You’re joking, right?” he asked pointedly.

I had no idea what he was talking about. “Um, about what?”

“Cookie dough out of a plastic tube? Pre-made?”

I shrugged. “It’s easy and fast, and they taste fine.”

He shook his head again. “Show me to your baking supplies. I can’t stand by and watch this.”

I scowled at him. “You’re bossy for an out-of-work houseguest,” I told him.

“I have a job. Several actually. But yeah, I’m bossy. Now show me to your flour.”

I kept scowling, but I was walking from the kitchen and into the walk-in pantry while I did it. I waved a hand at the area that kind of held the baking supplies. The pantry was hardly well organized, so he would probably have to dig around to get everything he needed for cookies.

I left him to it, going back into the kitchen to pre-heat the oven and grease a cookie sheet. I put out a large mixing bowl, measuring cups, and any other incidentals I thought he might need for baking. It was the least I could do if he was actually going to do the baking.

I shrugged out of my sweatshirt, suddenly warm. It was a hundred and ten degrees outside, but you wouldn’t know it by the way I normally froze inside of the A/C’d to death house. It wasn’t normal for me to get so warm inside for no reason at all.