Page 9 of His Vivacious Angel
“Oh wow, the nerveof that guy,” she says.
“Right?! He’s the worst.”
“Yeah, no, he sounds just awful,” Bailey says sarcastically. “Is he hot?”
I pull my phone away from my ear and give it a withering look that Bailey, unfortunately, can’t see. “No!”
“The fuck?” her newlywed husband, Isaiah, asks in the background. “Who are you talking to?”
“Autumn. I think she needs my scheming expertise to get back at her hot boss,” Bailey tells him.
“No, I don’t! He’s not hot,” I shout into the phone, but I doubt she’s even listening at this point—what with her husband always stealing her attention.
“God help whoever it is you two are targeting,” Isaiah grumbles, dropping his already deep baritone voice.
Bailey laughs, her voice turning sultry, which I absolutely do not need or want to hear. “I thought you secretly loved my scheming. It’s how I landed you.”
Lord, did she ever. She has been in love with Isaiah since she was thirteen years old. Having just turned twenty-two and only recently gotten married, that’s a long time to pine for someone who didn’t want her—actively avoided her and even moved away at one point!—before he finally gave in. I’m so happy for them, even if they are obnoxious in all their ooey, gooey PDA.
Isaiah growls, Bailey shrieks, and then all I hear is a bunch of sloppy, wet noises as they probably start making out. It’s exactly how she ended up pregnant with triplets, which I so do not want to think about.
“Ugh, call me back when you’re done jumping each other’s bones.” I end the call and toss my phone aside, knowing well enough not to expect a call back for, at minimum, two hours.
“I thought, surely, your Dad was joking when he said you offered to babysit for Forest,” Mom says while I help make dinner that night.
Dad cocks his ear as he takes the roasted onion, squash, and zucchini out of the oven.
If he weren’t here, I’d tell Mom the truth. But since I’m granted the perfect opportunity to tease Dad, I say, “Nope. I really want to make up for accusing him of being a stalker, you know? So I was thinking of baking something to take with me to welcome him to the neighborhood. Cookies or cupcakes or—oooh, maybe a pie? Cherry would be good.”
Mom and Dad freeze, cutting their eyes to each other, having a silent conversation before they look away. “Maybe cookies would be a better idea,” Mom says. “Everyone loves cookies.”
“I don’t know. You have the best cherry pie recipe, and everyone knows it’s Dad’s favorite.” I suck back a cackle, though my stomach is rolling at how gross it is to discuss this. Mom and Dad are real freaks when it comes to dessert. “And what better way to apologize to my boss than by bringing him a made-from-scratch cherry pie with homemade whipped cream?”
“Do not give her your recipe,” Dad says to Mom.
“Why not?” I ask, taking the ceramic dish of pork chops to the kitchen table where Brady is setting out plates and utensils. On the cusp of turning ten years old, the top of Brady’s shaggy hair already reaches my ear. He’s going to be tall, like Dad, and I’ll end up being the shortest out of everyone in our family.
“He has three kids,” Dad says simply.
“So?” I take a seat and set a cloth napkin over my lap, then suddenly grip the table and widen my eyes. “Wait, you don’t think I’m trying to S-E-D-U-C-E?—”
“I know how to spell,” Brady says, then sticks his tongue out at me.
“—my boss, like Mom did you with her pie scheme, do you?” I finish saying as if I hadn’t been interrupted. Bailey definitely took after our Mom, a natural-born schemer. “I would never, ever, do something like that. It’s so unprofessional. And besides, I already told you, I’m spending the next few years sowing my wild oats before I even think about settling down.” I mentally pat myself on the back for maintaining my innocent demeanor.
Mom tuts and brings her fingertips to her lips, likely concerned about Dad’s rising blood pressure as his face reddens.
“My pills,” Dad says to Mom, bringing his hand to his heart. “I forgot to take my pills.”
Mom hustles out of the kitchen to get Dad’s blood pressure medication.
“Sorry, Daddy,” I say with a twinge in my stomach. I took it too far again.
He dry swallows a pill when Mom comes back, and drops heavily onto a chair while she rubs his broad back. “One of these days, one of you girls really will give me a heart attack. We’ll see how sorry you are then.”
“Fine. I won’t bake him a cherry pie,” I say, helping myself to an extra heaping of apple sauce for my pork chop.
“Thank you,” Dad says, blowing out a long, relieved sigh.
