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“Sometimes they nest together when it’s cold out, but Lynette’s squirrels tend to run as a pack. She’s made them a family. An unruly family of unsupervised, teenage boys.” He tries to smile, but there’s no hiding his frustration.
“They got our mistletoe, Pete. What are we going to do?” Now that the shock of a squirrel attack has worn off, the real problem stares me in the face.
“I know some other mistletoe dealers. We’ll get everything squared away before Evie and Georgia ever find out, and in a couple days, we’ll be laughing about this.” Pete’s walkie talkie crackles, and he pulls it off his belt loop.
He shuts my door before answering, but I don’t miss what he says to whoever is on the other side.
“Round up the posse. We’ve got a squirrel problem to take care of.”
I pull away, trying not to think about what Pete and his posse intend to do or Grinchy’s big, wide eyes. Those eyes may still be cute, but I know what lies behind them now.
Pure evil.
Someday I’ll be able to look back on this night and laugh. Maybe I’ll even like squirrels again.
But right now, all I want to do is pick up Charly and take Pete’s advice to soak in a warm tub.
Right after I tell Seb what happened. Because I could really use a hug. And he’s the one person besides Charly whose arms I’d really like around me right now.
Chapter 25
Sebastian
Hope is late. Really late. And she’s not answering her phone.
And I really,reallyneed her to answer her phone.
Because what started out as a fun ebelskiver-making night with Charly has turned into a Nutella and whipped cream disaster.
Charly is covered in both. I don’t know how a kid gets chocolate up her nostrils, but Charly’s done it. She’s got it in her ears too. And all over her hands, up to her elbows. I even see some on her bare toes.
And that’s before all the butter, which she’s rubbed over her entire body.
Herentirebody.
I turned around to flip the ebelskiver in the pan, and seconds later—okay maybe longer. There may have been minutes involved—when I turned back around, she’d stripped off her dress and was rubbing soft butter all over her belly. The little bun things on top of her head are shiny with it, like rolls right out of the oven, and her arms gleam in the light.
“Charly, what are you doing?” I reach for the stick of butter, but she presses it harder against her chest, and it squishes between her fingers like soft clay.
“I a bean!” she says proudly, and I immediately regret settling on butter bean as a nickname for her today.
I thought a nickname would make her feel more comfortable with me, like a buddy. So all day long it’s been “come on, butter bean,” or “let’s do this, butter bean.” And it seemed to work, as far as making her like me. But now I wonder if she’s been waiting all day to prove she still has the upper hand in our relationship.
I’ve brought this butter disaster on myself.
I could call in reinforcements to help me with clean up, but I insisted I could manage Charly and sent Mom off to line dancing. And Stella’s out with friends in town for the weekend. Although, I’d have to suffer through being laughed at before she’d help me.
So I do what I can to unbutter Charly without sticking her in a bath. I don’t know how Hope would feel about me crossing that boundary. Seems like that would put me in the creepy friend zone. Hence, why I am trying to get ahold of her to ask what she thinks I should do.
Also, I don’t even know how to bathe a kid. Especially when there’s a half pound of butter involved.
So once I wrangle the butter from her, I wipe her down with dish towels. When I run out of those, I move on to paper towels.
Charly giggles when I rub her belly, and her little laugh is cute enough to make me smile. One day I’ll laugh about this, but not before my skin absorbs the butter that I’m slick with by the time I finish cleaning up Charly.
“Where’s Mama?” she asks with yawn when I’m done.
“She’ll be here soon, bu—” I stop. We’re done with butterbean.
