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Fiona crosses herself. Her eyes are skyward.
Fuck.
“Shit, sorry Fiona, swearing.”
She crosses herself again.
I try to mind my manners and mouth around Fiona who apparently has already said enough prayers to maybe get me an interview at the pearly gates. She doesn’t think I’ll gain automatic admittance, but she says a prayer for me every night. She came with the purchase of the pub. I immediately doubled her salary. The woman can cook like a dream, and I adore her.
The oven timer goes off as if she knows what I’m thinking. Please say it, please say it.
“Aye, it’s a Roly Poly.”
This woman is a queen. I kiss her cheek.
Her blue eyes twinkle. “Ah, be off with ya.”
Fiona takes a dish from the oven and sets it on the bench. Soon she and Georgia are talking recipes, baking, and some secret woman’s code when they both turn and look at me, then burst out laughing.
It’s so effortless to have Georgia here. She fits in. She grabs two bowls and spoons golden goodness into both. It’s my favorite–Roly Poly pudding.
“What is this, by the way?” She looks down at the bowls.
“Pastry drizzled in jam or golden syrup.” I eye the bowl. “Today’s is Fiona’s homemade boysenberry jam, rolled up and baked. It’s my fucking favorite.”
“Well, it’s for Lachlan and me.” She goes to move past me.
Wait. That’s for Lachlan? My fucking pudding is not for Lachlan.
A bolt of something close to green shoots through my body. I love my baby bro, but this shit isn’t going to fly.
With my hand at the base of her spine, I guide her back to the bar.
“This smells heavenly. I’m going to get the recipe from Fiona before I go.” Georgia’s smile hits me in the solar plexus.
I grunt. Not liking the fact that she’s already talking about leaving. Not liking it one bit.
She sets the bowls on the bar. “Are you the numbers brother?” I could listen to her talk all day with her soft Texan drawl. She could recite what’s on the back of a can of fly spray and make it sweet, sexy, and playful with those Southern vowels.
Her words hit home, and something in me dies a little.
“No, that’s Knox,” I grit out.
Our parents abandoned us when I was sixteen. I left school, which I was good at and enjoyed, to make sure Lachlan had perfect attendance when he started disappearing. Knox and I would scour the streets looking for him. Knox quit his dream of university to make money so we could survive. Thanks to us and Lachlan’s super smart brain he has a master’s degree in architecture. I sacrificed an education, Knox the same along with his youth. Lachlan lost the parents he adored.
We all fucking lost.
The first couple of years were shit. We squatted in abandoned council flats the council hadn’t figured out were empty. All three of us slept on a mattress on the floor, listening to rats scurrying across the floor. Batting them with a book if they got too close to us at night. Knox and I kept guard all the fucking time. It was our space. We were holding our tiny fragile, and at times not wanted, family together. Yeah, there were times I wanted to walk away. I know there were times Knox wanted to fucking sprint away, but we didn’t, because we’re family. We stick together no matter what. Something my shit parents didn’t care about.
Our parents leaving was a slug to Lachlan’s heart. He’d adored them, and they’d loved him. Knox and I were treated like shit. Abused mentally and physically, but Lachlan? He was carried, coddled, and cuddled since the day he was born. They adored him, or so we thought until we came home from school with a yellow Post-it stuck to the dining table.
Knox.
You’re up. Look after Lachlan. He’s the best of all of you.
Don’t fuck it up.
Ma and Da.
