“The kid from today, who was channeling Danny Zuko?” I said casually. I didn’t want to make it a big deal, nor give her an inkling I really didn’t approve of her canoodling with such a character. No matter how well-behaved my teenager was, a parent’s disapproval was the biggest motivator in any situation.
Lexie eyed me. “Oh, that’s Killian. We were talking about Tolstoy. He’s one of those crazy people that actually reads,” she said sarcastically.
I ignored the not so subtle stab at my intelligence. “Killian?” I repeated. Oh God, not only did he have a bad ass name and the bad ass physique to go with it, he also liked books? Shit.
She nodded, idly flipping channels on the TV. “Yeah, unusual name. I asked him about it, his family’s Irish,” she said distractedly.
Irish? This situation had escalated from and oh shit to an oh fuck moment. It seemed both of the Spencer girls were tied up with men who were not healthy for us. At least Lexie looked like she had a chance with hers. Mine was likely going to make a voodoo doll out of my likeness.
“Mom, I don’t get what the big deal is. Go over there, drop off the cake, say thank you and leave,” Lexie called to me while I was leaning against the door of her room.
“Why can’t you do it?” I whined, “You’re the one who baked the cake in question, I feel like it’s appropriate that you deliver it.”
Lexie emerged from her room, slinging a fringed bag over her shoulder. “Because I am meeting some classmates for my English project,” she explained, stuffing a dangerously boring looking textbook into the already overflowing bag. “And,” she added, looking up at me, “because you are the adult in this situation, so I think it is only appropriate you deliver the cake and the thank you.”
I scowled at her and followed as she walked towards the door. “You don’t need to do an English project. You speak the language well enough,” I said to her back. She didn’t reply, nor did she stop walking toward the door. “Since I’m the adult I think I should come with you—you know, to chaperone and help with the project,” I told her desperately.
She stopped walking and gave me a look. “You’ll help with a project about Shakespeare and his most influential works?”
I nodded.
“What do you know about Shakespeare?” she asked me with a sly grin.
“I know the dude hated happy endings and that Leo was a great choice for Romeo,” I replied confidently.
Lexie rolled her eyes. “I’ll see you later, Mom. Deliver the cake,” she ordered before she disappeared out the door.
Shit.
It was Wednesday afternoon, and uncharacteristically I was home early. Way early. I still had work to do, but I could do it from the comfort of my couch while wearing sweats and stuffing my face with candy. I had initially been happy about this turn of events. Until I came home to find Lexie icing a cake that she declared was for Zane as a “thank you.” I had been further dismayed when Lexie had announced I would have to deliver the cake, since she had to meet her stupid friends about a stupid Shakespeare project.
I stared at the offending cake. It looked innocent. Delicious, actually. All chocolaty and decadent. I think Lexie might have actually used real sugar. I debated eating the entire thing then telling Lexie I had delivered it. I quickly squashed that idea. Not because I doubted my ability to polish off an entire cake, but because Lexie would probably run into Zane at some point, ask him about the cake, and I would be discovered.
The only option was to deliver the thing. I just hoped my mental shield was strong enough to withstand the death glare I was most likely to get.
It was safe to say my hands were shaking as I walked up the cobbled path that led to Zane’s front door. This did not bode well for the cake I was carrying in those shaking hands. Although, if I dropped the cake then I would have a sufficient excuse as to why it wasn’t delivered. But then I would still face the explanation as to why there was a smooshed chocolate cake on Zane’s front walk. To be fair, even a smooshed chocolate cake would add some personality to the blank and boring exterior of the house. The lawns were mowed, the paint fresh and not chipped. But there was not an inch of personality in this place. I got that a biker wouldn’t be crap hot on landscaping, but even a muffler lawn sculpture would jazz the place up a bit.
I knocked quietly on his door, hoping, no, praying he wouldn’t be home so I could leave this on his front step and run. My chances were actually pretty good on that score, considering we hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the handsome biker since Sunday. I deflated a little on that thought. My mind was already mentally back at home, thinking of how much work I could get away with doing before commencing a Criminal Minds marathon.