I shudder. Fucking toothbrush therapy.
Logan huffs. “Anything else?”
“Just one more. As long as you’re part of this house, you’re a functional member of the family. That means you help out with chores and with children when needed.”
I have to bite my lip so damn hard not to laugh, remembering all his “I hate kids” comments.
The kid’s doing the math. Pay rent in Vancouver—which will require a full-time job and a part-time one if he wants to eat and have the internet too—or deal with a little curfew and being nice to people as dictated by Mercy for a couple of months.
“I agree to your terms,” Logan says.
“Good. The rules start now. Take off your boots and your jacket, which you will store in the appropriate places by the door. Next, wash your hands before you come to the table, which you’re going to set.”
His jaw drops, but he reaches to unbuckle the top of his boot. “Why can’t he set the table?”
“He’s feeding the baby, unless you’d rather feed the baby?” Merc raises an amused brow already knowing the answer.
“God, no. For the record, I don’t like babies or children or people generally.”
He’s such a volatile and prickly cactus that it’s become the best entertainment since the invention of hockey. He’s the angriest little hornet all through removing his boots and jacket, but he hangs his jacket nicely on an empty hook by the door and stores his boots with precision. I’m fascinated.
“Okay, so not a kinky thing,” Logan says to me. “He’s just bossy.”
“I mean, on second thought, it can turn into a kinky thing. Especially when he—”
Logan covers his ears. “No. Fuck, no. I don’t want to hear any of it. In fact, I’m getting earplugs for nighttime.”
It’s cute that he thinks we only have sex at nighttime. I also love how quickly the tide changed. He walked in here, thinking he’d out-gross us. Ha! Not today, little punk. Mercy and I have way more experience with siblings than he does. This guy has “only child” written all over him.
Without his leather jacket, he appears vulnerable. He’s so thin that I think we should slip him sticks of butter in his coffee or something. God. Are figure skaters supposed to bethatthin?
He’s got a lot of tattoos for a guy his age, but I guess I’m one to talk. Older people probably think that about me too.
“Someone going to tell me where the cutlery and shit live?” he asks, washing his hands with soap at the sink. “Or do I get to guess?”
“I’ll show you, little brother,” I say.
“Didn’t say you could call me that.”
“Tell me you grew up without siblings without saying you grew up without siblings.”
“What?”
“You’ll learn, kid.”
He scowls at me but takes instructions well and sets a nice table. We eat together, which involves Merc and I passing Stanley off to each other while he’s sleeping so we can enjoy our food. Of course, we’ve both already mastered eating with one hand, but it’s nice to have two.
“Don’t you ever put him down?” Logan asks. At least he’s calling Stan a he rather than it. Progress.
Merc and I exchange a look. “Sometimes,” I say.
“You’re going to smother him with all that love. How will he survive in the real world?”
“That’s a lot of parenting advice from someone who hates kids,” I say.
“It’s a lot ofhumaning advice.”
He leaves it at that, but it doesn’t take Einstein to figure out that the kid feels like he’s had a hard almost nineteen years. Maybe he has, but that remains to be seen.
