Page 7 of The Dragon’s Accidental Manny

“You can read me a story. I like dragons.” He glanced around at the rest of us. “We all like them.”

We ordered takeout for dinner, and Cam didn’t say much. He hobbled around, and I was pleased Allan had built a bungalow. Cam murmured his thanks again and went to bed just after the kids. I went into the courtyard. It was my favorite place to wind down, and I often sat here with my eyes closed, enjoying the tinkling of the fountain.

I should have called Meara. She always said to phone any time day or night. But I didn’t want her to chastise me for hiring someone who walked in off the street, though she had interviewed Cam and sent him to speak to Ledger. She must have been satisfied he was a good candidate, though she looked for manny qualities, not mate ones.

I’d have to phone her tomorrow and cancel the candidate she'd lined up for me. There were also the four pages of an NDA that Cam hadn’t signed and didn’t know about. I’d have to explain to Meara why I hired him because she could spot a lie from a mile away.

I had three children with dragons inside them. Sure, they wouldn’t meet them until adolescence, but until then, their beasts could cause problems if the kids weren’t wearing their bracelets. And added to that was our inner heat which was reflected in our warm skin and the need for our surroundings to be sweat-inducing for humans.

Working out how to hide my dragon and the kids’ dragon tendencies was something I’d think about tomorrow. But tonight, I allowed my beast and me to relish having a mate and that he was sleeping under our roof.

FOUR

CAM

I didn’t sleep well.

I kept waking up and checking the time because I didn’t want to be lolling in bed while the rest of the family was having breakfast and getting ready for school and work. And a month of sleeping in the car had marked me. I still braced myself for a cop shining a flashlight in the window and telling me to move on.

It didn’t help that the house had me sweating buckets—no, make those gallons—as though I‘d gone to sleep in the tropics. I peered out the window beside me. Nah, no swaying palm trees.

But the heat and the clock weren’t the only things keeping me up. The framed print over the dresser was two inches too high, and it irked me. Worse, the blue in the print fought with the colors on the wall.

By five A.M. I gave up on sleep and scrolled through the phone, and then a minute later, I leapt up and grimaced as my ankle twinged. It wasn’t bad enough to be called a sprain, maybe a sprain’s distant cousin.

Even if Price sent me on my way this morning—which would involve walking and using some of Meara’s logo money for a can of gas—I refused to act as a guest. I could cook up a big breakfast as a thank-you for letting me stay the night.

Rummaging through my bag for clean clothes, I found one shirt and a pair of briefs, but yesterday’s jeans would have to also be today’s.

My guest room had an attached private bathroom, but I worried I’d wake the rest of the house if I took a shower. But one sniff under the arm and I was ewww-ing and sneaking into the bathroom.

Rubbing the condensation from the mirror, I stared at myself, still bleary-eyed after the shower but ready to make an impression in the kitchen. The house was dark and quiet as I crept down the hallway. But the fridge didn’t give me inspiration because it was packed with meat. Whole chickens, a roast, sausages, hot dogs, bacon, lamb chops, and a mysterious lump wrapped in wax paper.

Who needed this much meat? I hadn’t been into the back garden but perhaps the family bred dogs, big, hungry fierce ones, and I pictured the kids throwing the meat over the fence as zookeepers did with big cats. Yikes, I hoped the gate was secured.

There was no yogurt but pushed to the very back, I discovered a carton of eggs as if they’d wandered in by mistake as I had yesterday. And in the freezer along with labeled packages of more meat, was a packet of frozen blueberries. Today’s breakfast would consist of blueberry pancakes with bacon.

The family stirred just after dawn as I placed the stack of pancakes on the kitchen island with a plate of bacon, done just how I liked it. Not burned but with a hint of its past life accompanied by a sharp crisp.

Jack charged in with the wings still attached and skidded over the tiled floor. His little brow furrowed as he poked at the bacon.

“It’s dead.” His eyes filled with tears, and I prepared myself for an awkward and painful conversation, because how did I explain to a four-year-old that the cute pig he may have seen at a petting zoo was now part of the menu.

“Ummm, yes.” This wasn’t my job to explain how animals were made into food, and I worried Price would think I was overstepping.

“Really dead.” But Jack raced to the fridge and pulled out a hot dog. He folded a pancake and put the sausage inside before chomping down on it.

“I love your pancakes, Cam.”

I took that as a win, and we high-fived one another.

Isla and Bea appeared. Isla tore a pancake in half and stabbed it with a fork. “There’s no meat. Just these blue things that Ledger sent over, saying we should eat more fruit.”

“They’re yummy.” Jack was on his second pancake after inserting another straight-out-of-the-fridge hotdog.

The sisters inspected the bacon and shared a glance before Bea stabbed a piece with a fork.

“Careful.” Isla put a hand on Bea’s arm. “Are you ready for this?”