He sighed, dropped the script to his lap. “Eden.”
I sighed, dropped my hands to my lap. “Damon.”
We faced off for several long moments.
But I wasn’t caving. He wasn’t telling me everything. I knew that, without a doubt, and based on his reluctance to dish, I also knew that what he was holding back was going to be good.
Really good.
He sighed again and flopped back against the cushions. “First, I don’t know how you know or why I let you convince me to tell you these things.”
I grinned and clapped my hands together. “OMG. Is this going to be as good as your sisters shaving your eyebrows right before you went on a date with the girl you’d been crushing on for months?”
“First,” he muttered. “That was abuse. Second—” He snorted. “It was pretty funny.”
I giggled. “Yes, and well-deserved if I’m remembering what you told me you did correctly.”
“You mean me swapping their shampoo with hair bleach?”
I nodded fervently. “That was probably the most devious of all the sibling torture I’ve heard you guys committed.”
“I was only trying to one-up them after they’d superglued my butt to the toilet seat.”
“I—” I broke off on a chuckle and shook my head. “You lot were relentless.”
“My poor mother,” he said in agreement. “Though, did I ever tell you about the time she made cookies and accidentally swapped the sugar for salt?”
I shook my head.
“We had this rule in my house. My mom cooked and we ate it without complaint,” he said. “We weren’t poor, by any means. But it wasn’t like we could afford to throw out meals just because we didn’t want to eat our broccoli, you know?”
I nodded, loving how his face gentled when he spoke of his family.
“So anyway, we all choked down those salt cookies, not saying a damn word because the ingredients were pricey and my mom worked a lot, so her being able to bake at all meant that she’d taken the time.”
“Insane practical joking aside,” I said. “It sounds like you were good kids.”
“Yeah, we were,” he said. “For the most part.”
He grinned and I smiled back. “Me, too.”
“I can’t imagine you ever doing anything bad,” he said, tugging on a lock of my hair. “You’re too nice.”
I hadn’t done anything bad. Not ever. I’d been a rule follower from day one. But being a rule follower had also gotten me into the situation I’d nearly died trying to survive. So now I was less about abiding by the rules and more about being a nice person, but not allowing myself to be used or hurt.
Armor.
Yup.
Closed down.
Most certainly.
But an asshole?
No. I wasn’t that.
Damon tucked a strand behind my ear, seeming to realize my thoughts had drifted somewhere else, somewhere unpleasant. “So, anyway, back to the cookies. I mean, we must have choked down six or seven each, my dad included. Not one of us made a peep of protest or complaint, but I swear, we pounded a gallon of milk faster than those cookies.”
“And you never said anything?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, none of us wanted to hurt her feelings.”
“That’s sweet.”
“It’s devious,” he said, “and I’ll tell you why. My mom knew we wouldn’t say anything. She. Knew. Which is why she swapped the sugar and salt on purpose.”
I gasped. “No.”
“Yup.”
“Apparently my dad had scared her that morning before work, jumping out from behind her car and making her spill her coffee. She hadn’t had time for a replacement because she’d spent an hour before work unsticking my ass from the toilet seat because of my sisters—”
“And circling back to you and your devious use of bleach.”
A flash of white. “I think my mom was the devious one, and her deviousness existed in the form of salt.”
I laughed. “Were they really that bad?”
He shuddered. “They were horrible.” Snagging his beer, he lifted it to his lips and drank deeply. “I swear, just thinking about that story and I can taste them all over again.” He mimed scraping off his tongue. “It’s an awful cross to bear.”
My laughter bubbled up in me, filling my lungs, escaping my lips, and Damon joined in, both of us giggling like loons for several minutes before we managed to get under control.
I wiped a finger under each eye. “I think I’m glad I didn’t have siblings,” I said. “Being an only child is the way to go.”
He shook his head. “They weren't so bad.”
“Superglue? Eyebrows?”
“Okay,” he admitted. “They were bad.” A beat. “But so was I.”
“True.”
“And plus, the salt cookies taught us a lesson.”
I lifted a brow. “Yeah? What could that possibly be?”
“To only pull pranks that wouldn’t bother my mom.”
I snorted. “So, the cookies didn’t reform you so much as teach you to be smarter?”
He considered that then nodded. “Yes, I guess that’s exactly right. We didn’t stop with the pranks, only did them where she—and her coffee—wouldn’t be affected.”
“Smart.”
“Learned survivalists more like.”
I tugged the script from his hands. “So, is that where you learned to do all the voices? From pranking your sisters?”
Damon plunked his bottle on the table. “I gave you salt cookies, and you’re still demanding more?”
“Salt cookies isn’t voice actor training,” I pointed out.
He wrinkled his nose.
“Come on, Damon,” I coaxed. “I have a box of cookies in the pantry and they have the proper amount of salt-to-sugar ratio.”
A put-upon sigh.
“Okay, fine. I was in a few plays.”
I waited for more of an explanation and when none came, I lifted a brow.
“Okay, okay,” he muttered. “Those plays were more like family productions. As in, every Christmas, my parents picked a play that we’d put on for the family. There were lots of different ones—A Christmas Carol, Annie, and the like. I’m the youngest, and so I played the younger roles.”
Nodding, I said, “That makes sense.”
“Well, I was really into it and the year I played Annie, I insisted on having my hair permed, not wearing a wig.”
“Okaay . . .”
He sighed. “Do I really have to—?”
“Yes.”
“I thought it was cool growing up. It was fun to hang with my sisters and do something productive. We even did it through middle school.”
“Why am I sensing a but here?”
“Probably because my sisters decided to screen our production of Annie for my entire middle school, complete with me in a dress and perm and singing my little heart out about tomorrow.”
“I’m not getting why that was bad?”
His expression was dark. “Because it was middle school and kids are assholes in any school, but they’re most especially assholes in middle school.”