Chapter Twelve #2
Aaaand… there’s the signature shake of the Kenna’s head. The one that tells me she’s not pleased but is going to allow it anyway. I’m going to guess she was assuming they’d play Go Fish again. This game, however, has been known to go on for thirty minutes or more.
I gesture to the kitchen table. “Care to join me for a glass of wine? It won’t be as good as what you had next door, but it’s red and it’s wet.”
Why the fuck did I just say that? Who the hell calls wine wet? I’m an idiot.
“No, thank you.”
She’s quiet as I pour myself one anyway then sit. I can’t see the kids from the table, but I can hear them. Kenna, however, hasn’t moved from the archway.
“I can watch her for you if you want to go downstairs.”
Again, I’m an idiot. Why would I suggest she go somewhere I’m not? I’m alone with her for the first time tonight, and I’m swinging and missing every goddamn time.
She hesitates. There’s a moment of awkwardness when she’s obviously trying to decide if she wants to leave her daughter under my care.
It’s like we’re this dysfunctional family, but we aren’t.
We aren’t family at all. Far from it. And I guess she’s not about to go downstairs while her kid is up here.
“I just have to go down and use the bathroom real quick if that’s okay.”
I point to the hallway. “There’s one right there. It’s clean.”
“That’s okay.” She glances through the large arched doorway where Amelia and Christian are playing. “I’d rather use mine… I mean, the one downstairs. I’ll be right back.”
I smile after her, loving the way she called it hers.
While she’s gone, I sip my drink and listen to the laughter coming from the other room.
Christian has surprised me with the way he is around Amelia.
Most kids his age think little kids are brats, or an inconvenience to be ignored or avoided.
But he’s talking to and treating her like an older brother would, with a sense of patience, care, and interest like he’s known her since she was born.
When Kenna comes back and takes a seat at the table, I get a whiff of spearmint. Did she brush her teeth? I lean back in my chair. Is that a sign she’s hoping I’ll kiss her?
She fiddles with her fingers anxiously.
I sense tension building inside her. At the same time, it occurs to me that while most people might scroll endlessly on their phones to busy themselves in awkward moments like this, she doesn’t even have her phone with her.
“I have a question,” I say. “Why aren’t you always looking at your phone like most twenty-somethings?”
She shrugs. “Social media can be toxic. I’m trying to set a good example.”
There are sooooo many things I’m itching to ask.
Because every time I find out something new about her, it just raises more questions.
But she’s sitting here at my table, and I’m not ready for her to walk away.
Digging into her past, present, and future is not something she’s likely to stick around for.
Instead, I say, “You and Allie seemed to get along well. If you like her, you’d like Mia too. They’re two peas in a pod. You know, if you take away the fact that Mia lives paycheck to paycheck and Allie’s family is richer than God.”
She picks at a thread on her shirt sleeve.
“God isn’t rich. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.
While He ‘owns’ heaven and earth, His wealth is measured in mercy, grace, wisdom, and love.
And Jesus lived a life of poverty. The Bible doesn’t exactly condemn wealth, but warns that money is the root of evil.
” She stares blankly out the window. “And some would argue it’s difficult for the wealthy to enter the kingdom of God because money makes them too self-sufficient and arrogant. ”
“Some?” I raise a brow at the odd emphasis she put on the word.
“You mean your father.” I chuckle when she gives a slight nod.
“Then definitely don’t introduce him to any Montana, McQuaid, or Ashford.
The collective wealth between those families is greater than the GDP of most small countries.
” I tilt my head. “And isn’t the love of money the root of evil? Not the money itself?”
She scoffs. “Not according to my father. But I’m impressed you know that.”
I tap on my head. “Not just a bag of rocks.”
She stands, walks to the cupboard, and gets a wine glass. “I think I’ll take that drink now.”
I smile and pour her a glass. There’s a deck of cards sitting on the table, so I grab it and start to shuffle. “What’s your poison?”
“Solitaire usually.”
And that one sentence says so much about her.
“Poker?” I ask. “Or blackjack?”
She cringes. Hard.
“Okay, so you’re not a fan of gambling games. I should have known better.”
“Yeah. Not a fan. But surprisingly, it has nothing to do with religion or my father.”
When she doesn’t elaborate, more questions flash through my mind. Questions that eat away at me like a fast-moving cancer.
“How about slapjack?” she asks.
My face cracks with a grin. “You want to play slapjack?”
She slides her glass of wine out of the way.
I laugh and do the same. Then I deal us each half the deck and we start flipping cards.
When she practically climbs on the table to claim the first pile when a jack appears, I shift over into the seat next to her so it’s easier for her shorter arms to reach.
After she claims the second pile, she eyes me suspiciously. “Are you letting me win?”
“Keep playing,” I say, then I aggressively slap the next pile before she does. And then the next.
I want to commend her on her choice of games, because one way or another, win or lose, I get to touch her hand over and over and over. I think slapjack just became my favorite card game of all time.
We’re almost even after two more run-throughs of the cards. And we’re both getting super competitive. The wine glasses keep getting pushed further away so they don’t get knocked over. And somehow our chairs have gotten a little closer together after each playful slap.
As we dive into the next round, I run the past several minutes through my mind and I’m starting to wonder if Kenna might be flirting with me.
Which is… not what I expected. We’ve shared looks.
Touches. And undoubtedly some of the same emotions.
But she’s never outright flirted before.
Right now though, I could swear her looks linger and her touches last longer.
I can’t even begin to describe how much I love it.
And how I plan to do everything in my power to make it continue.
Before long, we’re both laughing hard. So hard, that at one point, Amelia comes in to see what we’re doing.
I worry for a moment that she’s going to want to play.
Hell, I more than worry. I’m flat out upset that whatever this is might come to an end.
And as much as I love spending time with that little girl, I am not ready for what I have right now with her mother to end.
Amelia gets called back to the living room by Christian, and apparently fun with Christian trumps fun with adults because she happily trots away. Thank goodness.
Kenna takes a sip of wine then pushes up her sleeves. I remove my hoodie. We stare at each other, each of us narrowing our eyes as if we’re about to enter into an old west gun duel.