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The little girl was clutched onto Clara like a spider monkey, her little hands leaving red marks on Clara’s skin that had my mind going to places it definitely shouldn’t venture, and for a second the girl’s accusing gaze made me feel like she knew exactly what I was thinking.
That Clara Connor was still the hottest thing I’d ever seen. That I’d like to mark up her skin, and then kiss away the marks. Maybe lick them...
Man, the woman did it for me. She always had...
“Hi,” I said to the irate being in Clara’s arms.
The little face shifted slightly, an eyebrow raising as she regarded me while her mother and mine discussed the blue drinks Mom was pouring.
I raised a hand and gave her a little wave.
She continued eyeballing me suspiciously, but lifted her chin from Clara’s shoulder.
I made a face, crossing my eyes and wrinkling my nose, and then stopped, gauging her reaction.
She looked confused.
I would be too, if a grown man started making weird faces at me. But here we were.
Now I did a little dance, shimmying back and forth and giving her another face.
That made her smile, and I felt like I’d scored, glee washing through me.
It was time to go full throttle, I decided as Mom explained to Clara how long she’d been working on this cocktail recipe to get it just right. I broke into a full boogie, rolling my hands in front of me and shaking my hips, my shoulders going in time. It was a dance I wouldn’t be caught dead doing in a club, or really, anywhere. But it made this tiny person laugh, and suddenly I felt like a hero, like I could do just about anything.
Until Clara spun around and caught me.
I stopped immediately and cleared my throat, but a tiny smile lifted the side of her mouth too, and the victory I’d secured with her daughter escalated in my chest. It felt good to make her smile.
“Sylvester,” my mother said, oblivious to the scene going on a moment before. “You remember Clara Connor from next door.”
“Yeah, of course,” I managed, greeting her a second time for Mom’s benefit.
“And this is Beckett’s older brother,” Mom told Clara as if she’d have no idea who I was.
“I remember,” she said, that honey sandpaper voice doing something to my gut again. “How are you doing, Sylvester?”
“Good, yeah. Call me Sly, okay?”
She blushed again and I wanted to toss her over my shoulder and carry her into my bedroom. I stuffed my hands in my pockets instead.
“Your name is Siiiilllll-veeeessssst-errrr?” the little girl had swung around to keep her eyes on me, and my name seemed to amuse her greatly.
It kind of pissed me off.
“People call me Sly,” I told her, more defensive than I should have been, given her size and age.
“That’s weird.”
“Katie, that’s not nice,” Clara said.
“Your name is Kaaaaaattiiiiiieeeee?” I asked her, and Mom tsked next to me as my maturity level dropped to match my current opponent.
“It’s Katherine,” she sniffed, lifting her little chin as her mother put her feet on the floor.
“Fancy,” I noted.
She frowned at me. “Do you live here? I’ve never seen you here.”
