He shrugged, feigning disinterest. “Go ahead. Talk your trash. But if this is a competition, and for men, everything is, just know you’re about to get crushed.”
I nodded, pulled daintily on my wine. “And why are you so confident of your magical ways with children? Do you have some I’ve never met?” I regretted the words immediately, noting at once that I didn’t know him that well and he could easily be hiding progeny somewhere.
He smiled and tore a chunk off the round of rock-hard spelt bread sitting in the middle of the table. “One in every state of the Union. I had a wild youth.”
I stopped chewing and stared at his face.
He rolled his eyes. “No kids, Char. But I do have nephews and nieces. And they think I’m amazing.”
I finished my first drumstick and proceeded to the second. “How many siblings do you have?”
“Two sisters,” Kai said. “Both older, both a little bossy, both fantastic people. Gemma lives in Portland with her husband and baby girl. Dahlia lives in central Washington with her family. I’m going to go visit them and their orchard sometime soon. Maybe you can come.” He bumped me gently with his knees and watched my face for my reaction.
“I’d really like that,” I said, meaning it. “I’d like to meet the women who know best how to boss you around.”
He laughed. “I didn’t say they were any good at it. Just that they do it.”
I scooted my chair closer to his and kissed him on his mouth. “You taste good,” I murmured.
“That chicken is wicked good with buttermilk, paprika, and a little garlic.”
“Paprika!” I cried. “Smoked, right? But what in the name of heaven is in that squash thing? Did she actually stoop to tapioca?”
“Quite possibly,” Kai said, shushing me with another kiss. “Also, you are inappropriately loud right now.”
“I love smoked paprika,” I said and then jumped a foot in the air when I felt a small, cold finger poke into my armpit.
Dane erupted into a cackle, and Zara giggled into her hand.
“Aunt Charlie is tick-wish!” Dane said, falling on the floor in spasms of laughter.
I willed my heart rate to slow. “Yes,” I said. “Very.”
Kai lowered to the floor and went into full-on tickle attack on Dane.
Zara spoke to me in an oversized stage whisper. “Aunt Charlie, you were kissing Mr. Malloy. That is super nasty because he is a boy.”
I pulled her toward me and hefted her over my shoulder. I was happy her shrieks drowned out my panting. When did the girl get so heavy?
“He is a boy,” I said. “And he definitely has cooties, which is why we all need to go upstairs and wash our hands before story-time.”
“We just had a bath!” Dane protested from his upside-down perch behind us. Kai was carrying him by the ankles up the stairs.
“But you never know if you accidentally picked a booger between now and then,” I said, depositing Zara in front of the bathroom sink.
“You do realize you’re neurotic about cleanliness,” Kai said into my ear. His closeness made me shiver.
“Just looking out for our collective health,” I said, hoping Kai would stay close and that the kids would take at least fifteen minutes to scrub.
“Are you going to be one of those moms who goes in for a kamikaze hit at the playground, wielding hand sanitizer and preventing your children from forming any real friendships?”
I balked. “Of course I will bring hand sanitizer to the playground. Those places are cesspools for bacteria.” I shuddered.
Kai shook his head as we followed Zara and Dane into the room they shared. “You are a total weirdo. You’re hot,” he added, thoughtfully, “which does buy you some time, but you are still a weirdo.”
We piled onto Zara’s twin bed, legs and arms everywhere. After much deliberation and negotiation, the kids picked out two books each, two more than typically sanctioned, but approved by Jack and Manda on this special occasion. I suspected they were doing little cartwheels of joy downstairs having a few extra minutes of peace and canoodling.
As promised, Kai was irritatingly fantastic as a storyteller. The voices were spot on, especially some German nursemaid action he employed for the witch in Hansel and Gretel.
When Kai had finished with the breadcrumbs and the baked children, a story I had always found terrifying, I gathered my reserves and all the dramatic flair I could muster and started in. “‘Once upon a time,’” I read, “‘there lived a sweet and lovely girl named Cinderella.’”
Dane groaned. “Princesses are yuck.”
“They are not!” Zara said, the curves of her eyebrows rippling with concern. “And we read the scary witch one for you! It’s my turn.”
“She’s right, dude,” Kai said, his tone conciliatory. “Plus, it is pretty sweet when the fat lady makes the pumpkin turn into a car on wheels, right?”
“Pretty sure we can’t say ‘fat’ in this day and age,” I said under my breath to Kai.
“Calling a spade a spade,” he said back and gestured to the open book.