She studies me now, my heels, my skirt, my hair tied back in a neat ponytail. She gives me a full up and down, and finally settles on my eyes. “I’m conflicted.”
“Sunshine,” the man grumbles. The dad, surely. “Cool it.”
“But she’s holding his hand, Leo.”
“Actually,” I try again to yank my hand from Luke’s tight grasp. “He’s holding mine. He won’t let go.”
“She speaks up.” The woman tilts her head to the side. “But she’s dressed like…” She thinks for a moment. “An insurance saleswoman? A bank teller, perhaps.”
“Therapist,” Luke answers, like he’s not at all afraid of this woman’s wrath. “Therapist-in-training, actually. Dad, this is Allyson Moore. She’s Sonia’s great-granddaughter.”
“No shit.” The guy with ink and muscle, despite the fact he’s old enough to be my father – well, actually, he’s older than my dad by a decade or so – leaves the counter and comes to stand beside his wife.
He pulls her under his arm, cinches her tight, and though he’ll have us all believe he’s hugging her, I suspect it’s more an attempt at restraint.
He offers his free hand, and smiles when I take it with mine. “It’s so nice to meet you, Allyson. Sonia is very special to me.” Then he frowns. “I can’t say I knew she had children, though. I guess I never asked.”
“That’s what I said,” Luke chimes in. “I had no clue, but it turns out Sonia has a son, who had a daughter, who had a daughter.” He points at me. Then he looks to his mother. “Casey, you have anything nice you’d like to say to our guest?”
“Casey?” The woman lifts both brows and stings her son with just a look. She’s the shortest person in this room, the most petite, but she might be the most dangerous of them all. “You looking for a fat lip, son?”
“You need some chocolate, Mom, or are you gonna drop the thug act and say hey?”
“It’s not an act. I have a blade under my shirt, and a craving to hurt someone.”
“For god’s sake.” The blonde woman at the counter comes over to our huddle and extends a hand. “Hi, Allyson. Welcome to our home. My name is Kit, and Luke is my nephew.”
“She’s my aunt because she says so,” Luke says. “She’s my mom’s best friend, and depending on the day, she’s either alibi, instigator, or the one who’ll talk Mom down from criminal behavior.”
“Today looks like a criminal kinda day,” Kit grins. “Luke is her first baby, see? And he’s just walked in with a girl’s hand in his. We’re all adapting.”
“If it’s in any way beneficial for my defense, I’d like it repeated that I’m not holding his hand, he’s holding mine. And I can assure you, her thug act seems legitimate to me, so if I could remove my hand, I would.”
“I believe you. Luke?” Kit looks at her nephew. “You knew what would happen. Are you trying to get a reaction, or are you that dense?”
“Guess I’m dense, KitKat. Plus, I like making shit go bang. Did you know your daughter was at my place recently, starting fights?”
Kit smirks. “Em? Not surprised. She’s feisty lately.”
“Emma is your daughter?” I take another look at this woman – tall, blonde, beautiful – and I see the resemblance. “I met Emma. She was going to kick someone’s face in.”
Luke snorts and finally releases my hand to make his way to the fridge. “She was going ghetto.”
“Was it your face?” Kit asks me. “Should I apologize for my daughter’s behavior? I won’t mean it, but I understand that’s what’s socially expected in these situations.”
“If it was her face,” Luke’s mom glares, “then I’d like to know why Em was prepping to go to war. Then I’ll start gearing up too.”
“It wasn’t me.” A moment ago, I was fighting for my freedom from Luke’s strangling hold. Now, I stand all alone in this kitchen with two powerful women staring me down. “It was another woman. She was—”
“It was Grace Risotto.” Luke stands at the open fridge, with an open carton of juice in his hand. “She turned up unannounced on Saturday morning and tried to make trouble. Em had just so happened to turn up not so long before, so when Grace tried to cause a scene, Em lifted her boot and teeped the fuck outta that bitch.”
“She actually kicked?” Kit questions with wide eyes.
“Nah.” Luke takes another chug from the carton, only to toss it back in and slam the door. “She was just hot air, but if Grace had made a bad move, bitch was gonna die.” Bringing a hand up, he swipes his arm across his lips and finishes with a wicked smirk. “I need my burglar costume, Mom. Ally and I are tasked with a very important crime tonight, so I need to dress the part.”
“You are ridiculous!” I can’t believe the exclamation that bursts from my lips. The anger behind it. “A costume? You brought me here to the mom who’s gonna use my face for a dishrag, all for a little orange juice and a Halloween costume?” I turn on my heel and head back in the direction we came. “I’m done with this. You can put Chester back on your own.”
“Chester?” Casey’s voice makes my steps falter. “Luke Hart. What the hell did you do?”
“We stole him!” Where most people might shy away from that accusation in their mother’s tone, Luke merely singsongs and makes his way around the tiny woman to come to me. “We stole the shit outta him. But now Sonia knows, so she’s ordered us to put him back.”
“How the hell are you supposed to put him back?” Casey exclaims. “He’s always locked up. If you get caught, Luke, your ass is going to prison, you know that, right?”
“We won’t get caught.” Luke stops beside me and throws his arm over my shoulders. “Ally and I have a plan.”
“You do?” Kit asks.
“We do?”
“We do!” Luke says with so much enthusiasm, I already envision myself in an orange jumpsuit. “Come along, Ally. Let me show you my bedroom—”
“Not in my house, Luke!” Casey follows for a few steps as Luke leads me across the kitchen and back into the large entrance we first came through. But instead of heading outside, he pushes me up a set of stairs while his mom stays at the bottom. “Don’t you dare!”
“She of zero faith,” Luke murmurs for me. He cinches me in so tight that my hand automatically searches for somewhere to rest, somewhere to find balance, which means it goes to his belt, which is basically the same as touching his ass. “We’re not going to my room to make out, Mom. You can relax.”
“Luke Hart!” Casey shouts from the bottom of the stairs when we crest the top. “You have twenty seconds to get out of that bedroom. After that, Mommy has her own story time. Don’t test me!”
“Not testing you,” he calls back and leads me into a bedroom that is the messy type of clean.
Bunk beds shoved up against one wall, the blankets spread out on top like someone put in the effort to make their beds – but that someone was a five-year-old with t-rex arms. A flatscreen TV rests unevenly on a set of drawers, and an X-Box right beside it, all covered in a thick layer of dust. A remote control lies discarded on the floor, and right beside that, a pair of high-top Jordans that would have cost a small fortune, but now seem part of the landscape of a bedroom that once belonged to boisterous twin boys.