Page 39 of Scoring Chance

“Is your card the nine of clubs?” Dean asks.

I flip it over. “Seven of spades.”

“Hey, I was close!” Dean pumps his fist.

“No, you weren’t, dumbass,” Davy shoots back.

“Hey, don’t use that language. Right?” I don’t know where dumbass falls on the expletive scale, but this seems like a responsible adult thing to say.

“I guessed an odd number and a black suit. I was close. My telepathic powers are getting stronger every day, fartface.” Dean flicks cards at his brother. Lulu giggles hysterically.

I breathe an epic sigh of relief when I spot the coffee. At least they haven’t run out of that. It’s a big tub of discount, generic brand coffee grounds that I would never drink unless I was in an emergency.

I immediately pour it into the coffeemaker and begin brewing. It’s not the Nespresso I’m used to, but it’ll do. I turn back and see my three charges blinking back at me.

“Hold up. Aha!” I pull a carton of eggs from the fridge.

“We want pancakes,” Lulu says, tapping the table like a tiny executive.

“I don’t know how to make those. But I can do scrambled eggs.” They were a go-to breakfast on game days growing up. “They’re full of protein, a must for all athletes.” I point at Davy.

“Can you do an omelet?” Dean asks.

“Yeah! Can we have omelets?” Davy seconds.

“I want an omelet, too!” Lulu shrieks.

“Uh, sure.” I rub my face and move toward the coffeemaker like it was a life raft.

Tanner usually made them breakfast, I assumed. And judging by the expectant stares fixed on me, they thought I was stepping into that role this morning.

Right.

I could close a seven-figure campaign. I could pitch a rebrand strategy to a room full of skeptical executives. I once landed a client while bleeding from a paper cut the size of Texas.

But I had never—ever—made omelets for three children.

Wait.

“Where’s Lena?” I ask.

“She’s still getting ready,” Davy informs me.

“She’s putting on makeup so she can kiss her boyfriend.” Lulu giggles, then doubles over with so-called starvation. “I’m so hungry.”

“She has a boyfriend?” I ask.

“Matthias. He’s cool. He appreciates the spectacle of magic,” Dean says, whatever that means.

A pang hits me that I didn’t know Lena had a boyfriend. And then a strange surge of fierce protectiveness comes over me. Who the hell is this punk?

“Omelets?” Dean taps his lime green watch. “The school bus is coming soon.”

“Right. Omelets. Made with eggs.” I pull a coffee mug from the sink and fill it with brew. It’s bitter, but it’s necessary.

“Is Dad okay?” Davy asks.

“Yeah. He’s sleeping in.” I pull out my phone and Google an omelet recipe. “What do you like in your omelets?”