“Hey,” Mickey Donovan greeted, standing at my door looking unfairly attractive in a pair of faded jeans, a beat up chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up his sinewy forearms, another five o’clock shadow adorning his strong jaw.
He had two other beings with him, two beings I didn’t take in because first, Mickey was grinning, second, he looked unfairly attractive in his casual clothing, and third, he was holding a huge box filled with stuff I knew I would need to tag and arrange, which meant wine and shower were out. It was going to be tag, arrange and bed.
“Jesus, did heaven crash into your living room?”
I moved but only to blink.
“I’m sorry?” I asked.
“Amelia, darlin’, whatever you’re doin’ in there smells like it could only come from the hand of God.”
Wow.
That felt good. So good. Unusually good.
Abnormally good.
And it felt good because I loved to bake. I’d fallen in love with it all the way back in junior high school home economics class.
However, when I’d taken over my parents’ vast kitchen in order to enjoy my newfound hobby, my mother moved immediately to curtail these activities.
“We have staff to do that kind of thing, Amelia,” she’d rebuked. “Not to mention, a lady should do all in her power to shy away from sweets.”
Unfortunately, years later, when these tethers were severed and I might have been freed to bake at my leisure, more were tied because Conrad had felt the same.
“You’re gonna give me a gut, little bird,” he’d told me after the second time I’d baked him cookies. He’d then given me a meaningful look. “And you want to avoid getting one too.”
I thought, when the kids came, I could indulge, kids being kids and liking cookies and glossy, frosting-topped cupcakes with sprinkles.
But I’d been wrong. Conrad had acted like any sugar they consumed was akin to feeding our children poison.
In fact, he told me it was poison, “And should be avoided at all costs, pookie.”
Thus I’d been reduced to sneaking them cupcakes, cookies, pies and cakes when their dad was away at conferences.
Other than that, I’d buried that part of me.
And I had to admit, when I’d started baking hours ago, no matter how tired I was, I’d lost myself in it.
It was just that now the fatigue had settled deep, I wasn’t enjoying it as much.
Regardless, Mickey was right. The house smelled like a bakery. Sugary and sweet.
And heavenly.
Thus I decided right then I was going to bake again. For me. For the kids.
In fact, the next time they came maybe I’d get them to stay home and in my presence for more than five minutes, bribing them with cupcakes.
“Earth calling Amelia. You there, babe?”
I shook my head sharply and focused on Mickey, who was calling me, laughter in his deep voice, that and his saying my name with that laughter doing things to me I refused to feel.
“Sorry, it’s been a long day.”
“I bet it has,” he murmured, his eye on me dancing (something I refused to see). He hefted the box in his arms an inch. “Junior called, said the big day was tomorrow. You didn’t tell me.”
I didn’t and not because I was avoiding him (which I also was) but because I completely forgot.
“I didn’t, Mickey,” I admitted. “I’m so sorry.”
He kept grinning. “No apologies, babe. Not lost on me your house has been a hub of activity the past week. But the kids and I had a troll through our place and thought we’d pop these by to do our bit.”
“And to get a cupcake.”
This came from one of the beings with him and I finally gave my attention to the boy and girl that were standing on either side of Mickey. Taking them in, I saw that Mickey and his ex-wife had flip-flopped what Conrad and I had created.
This included his daughter clearly being the oldest and looking a lot like her father, except female, shorter and very curvy to the point of being a little plump, still carrying what was probably some pre-adolescent baby fat.
His boy had dark blond hair, but luckily got his father’s blue eyes. He also had a body that had yet to declare its full intentions seeing as, at a guess, Mickey’s daughter was around thirteen or fourteen and his son was maybe ten or eleven.
“My girl, Aisling,” he said, jerking his head to the girl. “Said starting with the Ash, but spelled Irish with an a, i and s.” This came out practiced and I knew he’d given his girl a beautiful name but one many messed up. “Cillian, also spelled Irish,” he stated, jerking his head the other way, to the boy. “Spelled with a c not a k.”
“Got it,” I mumbled. “Ash with an a, i, s and kill. I’ll be certain to get that right on your Christmas card.” This made Mickey smile, Cillian grin and Aisling’s blue eyes twinkle like her dad’s. “How about the three of you come in, drop that and get a cupcake?” I invited.
“Awesome,” Cillian decreed and raced in, straight to the kitchen, something that caused a pang around my heart, most likely because I wished just one of my own children had done that.
“Thanks, uh…Miz…” Aisling said, allowing that to hang.
“Miz nothing,” I replied on a smile to her, moving out of the way. “I’m Amelia.”
She looked to her father as he shifted into the house, then nodded to me and followed him.
I closed the door behind them and repeated my invitation. “Help yourself to a cupcake. Or a bag of cookies if you prefer.”
Aisling wandered toward the kitchen.
“Just sayin’,” Mickey started and I looked to him to see he’d put the box on the floor at the lip of the top step to the sunken living room. “My kids aren’t allowed to call adults by their given names.”
“Oh,” I murmured, feeling rattled, thinking I’d put my foot in it.
“Not a big deal,” he said quietly and quickly, then came another of his easy grins. “She wouldn’t have called you Amelia anyway. She woulda probably avoided calling you anything until the go-ahead was given to call you Aunt Amelia, which is how they address their elders that they’re tight with.”
It would seem that Mickey was kind of strict with his kids.
I didn’t know how to take this outside of reminding myself it wasn’t mine to take in any way. So I just nodded.
“And also just sayin’,” he went on, talking lower, “you’ve worked your ass off, that’s plain to see.” He tossed a hand toward the room. “So we’ll unload this and tag it. Not cool for us to dump last minute shit on you.”
It felt good he noticed.
I still didn’t think it was healthy for him to hang around (this being healthy for me), so I assured him, “That’s very nice but I’ll be okay. Your box is small, it won’t take too long.”
He didn’t look assured and he didn’t look this for a while and this was because he did it studying me.
Then he asked, “You doin’ okay?”
I thought that was an odd question so I answered, “Sure.”
He kept studying me as he continued, “You eatin’?”
It was then I realized I hadn’t had anything except licking the spatula of cupcake batter since I had my Cream of Wheat that morning.