just kissed the living daylights out of him,
she reminds herself, trying to fend off the sensation that what just happened between them was a dream sequence in some bizarre production.
“I’m Sam Rooney, an old friend of Meg’s.”
Startled back to reality by that unexpected—and basically untrue—introduction, she nods in vigorous agreement. “Sam was helping me move stuff.”
“Really,” Geoffrey says dubiously.
“Yes. All those boxes are so heavy that I couldn’t get them up the stairs, so Sam… helped.”
Never mind that there are no actual boxes on the second floor yet, which might lead Cosette and Geoffrey to wonder exactly what Meg and her hot old friend were doing in the bedroom.
“Sam,” Meg says, heading down the steps with him right behind her, lest the newcomers venture up, “this is my daughter Geoffrey and my friend Cosette.”
“Um, Mom? Hello?” Cosette waves a hand in her face as she arrives at the foot of the staircase, “
I’m
your daughter;
he’s
your friend.”
“Oh, right, whatever.” Meg is becoming more discombobulated by the second—much, she sees, to Geoffrey’s silent amusement. She prattles on, “Sam has a son your age, and he’s going to play soccer with you.”
“That’s funny, I thought
Sam
was about my age,” Geoffrey cracks.
“I was talking to Cosette.”
“That’s even funnier, because I told you I’m not playing soccer,” Cosette retorts.
“Yes, you are. She is,” Meg assures Sam, without looking at him.
She isn’t particularly anxious to gauge his reaction to her daughter, who more closely resembles Edward Scissorhands than the mythical all-American girl next door.
“It’s great to meet you, Cosette,” Sam says so easily, she’s relieved. “I think I’ll be your soccer coach.”
“That’s nice, but I’m not actually playing. My mother is deluded.”
“Cosette!”
“Mom!”
Fuming, Meg glares at her daughter. “You’re not allowed to speak to me that way, and you’re about to lose a privilege.”
“Too late. I’ve already lost them all, now that we live here. Guess you’ll have to figure out another punishment.”
“Believe me, I will,” Meg mutters.
“On that note,” Geoffrey says after an uncomfortable pause, “I think I’ll toddle back to civilization.”
“And I’ve got to get home,” Sam pipes up, following Geoffrey toward the door.
There, he pauses to ask, “Meg, do you want to spend the night? You and Cosette,” he adds hastily, and tacks on a gratuitous, “because you don’t have anyplace to sleep here.”
“No, we’ll be fine,” she says reluctantly.
His offer is tempting for reasons other than the lack of sleeping accommodations here, but she isn’t particularly anxious to further expose him to her sulky fifteen-year-old at this point.
He’ll get to know Cosette soon enough. Unfortunately.
“Well, holler if you need anything. See you at soccer,” he calls over his shoulder as he makes his exit.
“Definitely,” Meg shoots a daggered look at her daughter as she returns with false cheer, “See you at soccer.”
Chapter
6
S tanding in the sunlit kitchen listening to morning birds chirping outside the screen and waiting for the coffee to finish brewing, Sam does his best to think of a good reason to go into the den.
Does he want to reread one of the dog-eared novels that line the built-in shelves?
Not particularly.
Does he need to pay a few of the bills stacking up in the basket on his desk?
Yes, but he can’t. Not until after school starts next week and he resumes getting regular paychecks.
You could… um… dust!
he tells himself triumphantly.
Yes, every room in the house can use a thorough dusting; he can’t afford the Molly Maids service during the summer months. While he’s fairly good about staying on top of the laundry, dishes, and vacuuming—a daily must with Rover shedding all over the place—he never pays much attention to the furniture.
Sheryl was always big
she reminds herself, trying to fend off the sensation that what just happened between them was a dream sequence in some bizarre production.
“I’m Sam Rooney, an old friend of Meg’s.”
Startled back to reality by that unexpected—and basically untrue—introduction, she nods in vigorous agreement. “Sam was helping me move stuff.”
“Really,” Geoffrey says dubiously.
“Yes. All those boxes are so heavy that I couldn’t get them up the stairs, so Sam… helped.”
Never mind that there are no actual boxes on the second floor yet, which might lead Cosette and Geoffrey to wonder exactly what Meg and her hot old friend were doing in the bedroom.
“Sam,” Meg says, heading down the steps with him right behind her, lest the newcomers venture up, “this is my daughter Geoffrey and my friend Cosette.”
“Um, Mom? Hello?” Cosette waves a hand in her face as she arrives at the foot of the staircase, “
I’m
your daughter;
he’s
your friend.”
“Oh, right, whatever.” Meg is becoming more discombobulated by the second—much, she sees, to Geoffrey’s silent amusement. She prattles on, “Sam has a son your age, and he’s going to play soccer with you.”
“That’s funny, I thought
Sam
was about my age,” Geoffrey cracks.
“I was talking to Cosette.”
“That’s even funnier, because I told you I’m not playing soccer,” Cosette retorts.
“Yes, you are. She is,” Meg assures Sam, without looking at him.
She isn’t particularly anxious to gauge his reaction to her daughter, who more closely resembles Edward Scissorhands than the mythical all-American girl next door.
“It’s great to meet you, Cosette,” Sam says so easily, she’s relieved. “I think I’ll be your soccer coach.”
“That’s nice, but I’m not actually playing. My mother is deluded.”
“Cosette!”
“Mom!”
Fuming, Meg glares at her daughter. “You’re not allowed to speak to me that way, and you’re about to lose a privilege.”
“Too late. I’ve already lost them all, now that we live here. Guess you’ll have to figure out another punishment.”
“Believe me, I will,” Meg mutters.
“On that note,” Geoffrey says after an uncomfortable pause, “I think I’ll toddle back to civilization.”
“And I’ve got to get home,” Sam pipes up, following Geoffrey toward the door.
There, he pauses to ask, “Meg, do you want to spend the night? You and Cosette,” he adds hastily, and tacks on a gratuitous, “because you don’t have anyplace to sleep here.”
“No, we’ll be fine,” she says reluctantly.
His offer is tempting for reasons other than the lack of sleeping accommodations here, but she isn’t particularly anxious to further expose him to her sulky fifteen-year-old at this point.
He’ll get to know Cosette soon enough. Unfortunately.
“Well, holler if you need anything. See you at soccer,” he calls over his shoulder as he makes his exit.
“Definitely,” Meg shoots a daggered look at her daughter as she returns with false cheer, “See you at soccer.”
Chapter
6
S tanding in the sunlit kitchen listening to morning birds chirping outside the screen and waiting for the coffee to finish brewing, Sam does his best to think of a good reason to go into the den.
Does he want to reread one of the dog-eared novels that line the built-in shelves?
Not particularly.
Does he need to pay a few of the bills stacking up in the basket on his desk?
Yes, but he can’t. Not until after school starts next week and he resumes getting regular paychecks.
You could… um… dust!
he tells himself triumphantly.
Yes, every room in the house can use a thorough dusting; he can’t afford the Molly Maids service during the summer months. While he’s fairly good about staying on top of the laundry, dishes, and vacuuming—a daily must with Rover shedding all over the place—he never pays much attention to the furniture.
Sheryl was always big
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