Page 16 of The Way We Touch
“What do they call them?” He gives me a haughty look.
“Turtles.” I shake a little salt and pepper over the bright yellow eggs. “This smells delicious.”
But I hesitate before taking a bite. The little girl stands right at my side watching me.
I glance at her. “Want some?”
She shakes her head no. “Why are you acting like you’re scared of those eggs?”
“Kimmie J, let the men eat.” Allie taps her little shoulder, but she’s still watching me curiously.
Garrett pokes her side, and she squeals, slapping at his hand. “He ate one of Aunt Dylan’s peppers.”
That makes her eyes widen. “Did you cry?”
“Just about.” I take a bite of my omelet, thankful it’s not the least bit spicy.
“He didn’t just cry,” Garrett laughs. “His whole face exploded.”
Kimmie puts her small hand on my arm. “I bit a pepper once, and I cried.”
“Then you got ice cream.” Dylan walks over, taking her hand.
“Sounds like Aunt Deedee needs to stop leaving hot peppers lying around.” Garrett cuts his eyes at his sister.
“Or people need to stop walking up and eating things without asking what they are.” She squats in front of her niece, right beside me so if I glance to the left, I can see her soft cleavage stretching that white, V-neck tee.
I keep my eyes on my plate, which I’m quickly devouring. This is the best damn omelette I’ve had in a long time.
“Want to help me make up the bedrooms for the men?” she asks Kimmie.
“We can help you with that.” Garrett is on his feet, carrying his clean plate to the kitchen.
“Well, shii—oot.” I quickly clean up my language. “You finished fast.”
“I’m tired, bro.” He returns to his sister. “Walk over when you’re done.”
I look at my nearly finished plate, and exhaustion rolls over me. My near-death experience wiped me out, too, it seems.
“I’ll come with you.” Standing, I carry my plate to the kitchen, grabbing the last piece of toast before following them out the door.
When we got here, we left the truck parked in front of a large white house with a wrap-around porch and a yard full of blooming Crepe Myrtle trees. All our bags are still in the bed, so we stop and grab them while the girls head inside.
“My room’s upstairs. The guest room is on the first floor behind the kitchen.” He’s talking as we walk up the steps to the front door.
Palmettos and camellia bushes mix around the edge of the porch, and a swing on the corner sways in the light breeze. Overhead, the ceiling is painted pale blue, and the scent of sweet olive and salt water hangs in the heavy air.
It’s all so familiar, warm, and welcoming.
Garrett holds the screen door, and I follow him into the house. Dark, polished-wood floors line the downstairs. To the left is an open living room with French doors and lace curtains. Plush couches are arranged in front of a large flatscreen television, and a piano is in the corner.
He grips my shoulder, giving it a shake. “I’ll wake you in time for dinner.”
With that, he heads up the stairs, and I follow the sound of voices coming from the end of the hall in front of me. I pass the kitchen on my left. It’s large and surprisingly modern with a brick oven, custom cabinets, a farm sink, and a heavy-duty gas range with a hammered-copper hood.
Looks like somebody could prepare a feast in here and probably has on several occasions.
“I got it!” The little girl’s voice echoes from the other side of the door in front of me.