trying to make things normal for everyone.
We’d sit. We’d eat. And I’d pretend that I wasn’t in irreversible love with his girlfriend. No. Big. Deal.
“Need help with the pasta?” Trace grabbed my glass of wine and took a sip. It was decided. God hated me. Her lips were everywhere on my glass and now I had to drink after her?
You’ve got to be shitting me
.
In true Sicilian fashion I had made the noodles from scratch, which would take anyone who didn’t know what the hell they were doing a long time. “Pasta.” I pointed at my handiwork. “It’s almost done, why don’t you go relax? Drink some wine, put your feet up, do your homework.”
Trace groaned. “Did you just tell me to do my homework?”
“No?” I took a step away from her. The perfume she was wearing was literally killing me and I could only hold my breath for so long. And I was sure that if she touched me I would probably explode with frustration, or just scream and have to be institutionalized. Wonder if the mafia had connections in the loony bin.
“Look, you do have a lot of homework. Maybe Nixon can help you?”
“Help me?” she repeated, and then tilted her head to the side. Before I could back up any farther she reached up and felt my forehead. “Are you sick?”
“No.” I swatted her hand away. “I’m just… cooking.”
Oh God kill me now.
“Cooking?”
“Are you going to repeat everything I say?”
“Depends.” She shrugged. “You gonna stop acting like an ass?”
I grinned. “Nope.”
Trace swatted the back of my head. “There he is. Welcome back, asshole; don’t scare me like that. You’re making me nervous with all this baking and ordering me to be responsible and do my homework. You’re not my brother, you know.”
The huge gulp of wine I had just taken spewed out of my mouth and onto the stove.
The room fell silent, and then Nixon clapped. “Well done, you’ve finally shocked the hell out of him, Trace.”
I wiped my face and threw the wine-stained towel at Nixon’s head. “Whatever. Wash up, children, dinner’s almost ready.”
“Yes ma!” they all yelled as they went to set the table, leaving me alone in the kitchen yet again.
I leaned over the sink and told myself to keep the contents of my stomach inside, not out.
Brother? A freaking brother? Was she insane? Yeah, pretty sure I would never, ever think of her as family. She wasn’t family. She was—shit. She was everything.
Chapter Nineteen
Nixon
Well, that was awkward. Points go to Chase for not completely losing his shit while Tracey touched his forehead and then proceeded to tell him not to be an ass. If it hadn’t been my girlfriend he was crushing on—I may have found it funny.
But it wasn’t.
So instead, to rein in my anger I was clenching my fork and trying my damnedest not to bend it in half while we all sat around the table like a happy little family.
“So.” Mo dipped her bread in the olive oil in the middle of the table and stuffed it into her mouth. “Any updates, Nixon?”
I shrugged and poured myself another glass of wine. “Nothing helpful. I’ve been looking through all the accounts from the De Lange family. The same as always. We’re working on a hunch. We know my father didn’t kill anyone, but that’s it. We don’t know anything else, and now that Trace’s grandpa isn’t here it’s not like he can even help us. I mean, he’d die before we could even gain access to what we’d need.”
Trace dropped her fork onto the plate. “My grandfather?”
“Yeah.” I rubbed her back. “Trace, I’m sorry, it’s just, he’s the only one involved in this who wasn’t still watching cartoons and playing with toy soldiers when everything took place.”
She grimaced. “I wish I could be more help. I feel like everyone’s risking so much for me and I’m not even doing anything to make it better. If anything it’s worse.”
“Whatever.” Mo thrust her fork into the air. “Boots, things sucked
We’d sit. We’d eat. And I’d pretend that I wasn’t in irreversible love with his girlfriend. No. Big. Deal.
“Need help with the pasta?” Trace grabbed my glass of wine and took a sip. It was decided. God hated me. Her lips were everywhere on my glass and now I had to drink after her?
You’ve got to be shitting me
.
In true Sicilian fashion I had made the noodles from scratch, which would take anyone who didn’t know what the hell they were doing a long time. “Pasta.” I pointed at my handiwork. “It’s almost done, why don’t you go relax? Drink some wine, put your feet up, do your homework.”
Trace groaned. “Did you just tell me to do my homework?”
“No?” I took a step away from her. The perfume she was wearing was literally killing me and I could only hold my breath for so long. And I was sure that if she touched me I would probably explode with frustration, or just scream and have to be institutionalized. Wonder if the mafia had connections in the loony bin.
“Look, you do have a lot of homework. Maybe Nixon can help you?”
“Help me?” she repeated, and then tilted her head to the side. Before I could back up any farther she reached up and felt my forehead. “Are you sick?”
“No.” I swatted her hand away. “I’m just… cooking.”
Oh God kill me now.
“Cooking?”
“Are you going to repeat everything I say?”
“Depends.” She shrugged. “You gonna stop acting like an ass?”
I grinned. “Nope.”
Trace swatted the back of my head. “There he is. Welcome back, asshole; don’t scare me like that. You’re making me nervous with all this baking and ordering me to be responsible and do my homework. You’re not my brother, you know.”
The huge gulp of wine I had just taken spewed out of my mouth and onto the stove.
The room fell silent, and then Nixon clapped. “Well done, you’ve finally shocked the hell out of him, Trace.”
I wiped my face and threw the wine-stained towel at Nixon’s head. “Whatever. Wash up, children, dinner’s almost ready.”
“Yes ma!” they all yelled as they went to set the table, leaving me alone in the kitchen yet again.
I leaned over the sink and told myself to keep the contents of my stomach inside, not out.
Brother? A freaking brother? Was she insane? Yeah, pretty sure I would never, ever think of her as family. She wasn’t family. She was—shit. She was everything.
Chapter Nineteen
Nixon
Well, that was awkward. Points go to Chase for not completely losing his shit while Tracey touched his forehead and then proceeded to tell him not to be an ass. If it hadn’t been my girlfriend he was crushing on—I may have found it funny.
But it wasn’t.
So instead, to rein in my anger I was clenching my fork and trying my damnedest not to bend it in half while we all sat around the table like a happy little family.
“So.” Mo dipped her bread in the olive oil in the middle of the table and stuffed it into her mouth. “Any updates, Nixon?”
I shrugged and poured myself another glass of wine. “Nothing helpful. I’ve been looking through all the accounts from the De Lange family. The same as always. We’re working on a hunch. We know my father didn’t kill anyone, but that’s it. We don’t know anything else, and now that Trace’s grandpa isn’t here it’s not like he can even help us. I mean, he’d die before we could even gain access to what we’d need.”
Trace dropped her fork onto the plate. “My grandfather?”
“Yeah.” I rubbed her back. “Trace, I’m sorry, it’s just, he’s the only one involved in this who wasn’t still watching cartoons and playing with toy soldiers when everything took place.”
She grimaced. “I wish I could be more help. I feel like everyone’s risking so much for me and I’m not even doing anything to make it better. If anything it’s worse.”
“Whatever.” Mo thrust her fork into the air. “Boots, things sucked
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