Читать книгу Undercover Nanny - Wendy Warren - Страница 9

Daisy June Ryder liked fashion. Before the business had started gasping for breath, and she’d opted to pay the past month’s utility bills plus as much of the back rent as she could—which wasn’t much, really—from her personal checking account, clothes and shoes had been her number-one material indulgence.

So when she dressed for success as a prospective babysitter, D.J. put on her favorite sixty-five-dollar Melrose Avenue jeans, an Anna Sui top that she’d bought at a second-time-around chic boutique and her Nine West boots.

With a name like Daisy June, a girl was practically forced to develop a sense of style.

Besides, D.J. was nervous, and clothes, she had long since discovered, could act the part of old friends. People might come and go, but her pink suede slides would follow her anywhere.

Yesterday evening she’d sat in a parked car down the block from Maxwell Lotorto’s house and watched him engage in a confrontation with a stout gray-haired woman. Hunched low in the front seat of her Mustang, she’d watched four young children follow Max and the woman out of the house. With her window rolled down, D.J. caught enough of the conversation to glean that the children belonged to Max, that the irate woman was either a housekeeper or nanny, and that she was quitting or being fired. Maybe both.

D.J. had never believed in angels or anything like that, but if she did, she’d swear one had been guiding her footsteps last night. She’d been in just the right place at just the right time to gather a solid foundation of information.

Standing in front of Tavern on the Tracks for the second time in fewer than twenty-four hours, D.J. attempted to quell that slightly sickening butterflies-in-the-belly feeling by calling it excitement. She’d spent years making her living by locating missing persons, some of whom had taken exception to being found. She had not yet, however, changed her identity or masqueraded as someone else to get the job done.

Today would be her first day “undercover.” Today D. J. Holden, P.I., kick boxer extraordinaire—if she did say so herself—and undoubtedly the only woman in her yoga-for-relaxation class licensed to carry a concealed weapon, was going to be Daisy June Holden, career babysitter.

Without doubt, she was better suited to investigative work than to child care. She’d done a good portion of her own growing up as the only kid in the home of two much older adults, but she’d adored Bill and Eileen Thompson. She’d followed Bill around like a pup on a leash, absorbing knowledge about his private investigation business like soil absorbs rain—naturally, effortlessly.

She expected to expend a lot more effort learning to corral a bunch of rugrats.

Late-morning sunshine warmed the pavement of the small northern California town of Gold Hill, making D.J. squint. She left her sunglasses on top of her head, nonetheless, wanting to appear casual, eminently approachable when she walked into the restaurant that adjoined the bar. Tavern on the Tracks was comprised of two adjacent storefronts, each with its own entrance. On the right was the bar. On the left was a space that appeared to be undergoing renovations. A sign on the latter space said that an Italian restaurant would be opening soon. Yesterday D.J. had been to the bar; today she decided to investigate the restaurant.

Licking her lips, she walked across the threshold.

It was dark in the as-yet-unlit restaurant. She looked around, making out only shadow. It was way dark.

Standing still while her eyes adjusted to the dimness, D.J. let her ears do her investigating for her. Not only was it dark, there was a vaguely smoky, musty smell in the room that made her think of Mickey Spillane novels.

Until she heard giggles. Giggles and whispering that sounded distinctly juvenile.

As her eyes adjusted from outdoors to indoors, D.J. carefully approached one of the leather booths.

On the floor beneath the table, two squirmy, chortling boys huddled together like puppies.

She crouched down for a better look. “Hello.”

When they saw her, the bolder of the boys put his finger to his mouth and hissed, “Shhhhh. You’ll alert enemy forces.”

“Sorry,” she whispered back. “Why are you hiding?”

The other boy started to answer, but the first child clamped a hand over his mouth. “We can’t talk to you until we know whose side you’re on.”

“Oh.” She nodded. “I’m on your side.”

“You gotta get under here then.”

D.J. viewed the cramped space and gave a mental shrug. If you can’t beat ’em…

She grunted as she crawled in beside her new comrades. With her five-foot, seven-inch frame hunched beneath the table, she felt like an arthritic turtle and knew she wouldn’t be able to hold out long. “What’s the location of the enemy forces?”

“They’re over there.” The curly headed self-appointed spokes-person of the duo pointed in the direction of the neighboring bar. “Eatin’ stuff.”

“Eatin’ stuff.” D.J. nodded. “Why aren’t you two over there eatin’ stuff?”

“Eatin’ on a mission is sissy.”

“But I’m hungry,” his partner piped up.

D.J. looked at the other boy, physically a near carbon copy of his compatriot. Obviously brothers, they looked little like Max, which meant, she assumed, that they favored their mother.

Yesterday’s discovery of the children and the apparently defecting caregiver had not told her everything she needed to know, but it had given her a place to start. Max Lotorto needed child care. His wife must have passed on or moved on, because he clearly had responsibility for these kids. Assuming the woman was alive, what had made her leave gorgeous Max and their four kids? Was she still in the picture at all? D.J. had no outstanding maternal instincts, but voluntarily leaving one’s children did not sit well with her.

If the children’s mother was alive, perhaps Max had some fatal flaw that had made the marriage untenable. That was the kind of information Loretta wanted, the kind of information D.J. had come to the restaurant to get.

The boys began nudging each other and whispering. “What are your names?” she asked them.

The gigglier, hungrier one started to answer, but his brother gave him an elbow shot to the ribs. “We’re not supposed to tell,” he said over his brother’s cry of “Ow!”

“That’s when we’re outside,” the other boy said, elbowing back.

A skirmish—one that would surely put D.J. at risk from a flailing appendage—seemed about to ensue, until a very deep, very authoritative masculine voice called out, “Sean! James! Where are you?”

“Shhhh,” the boys hissed to each other. In a loud whisper the more dominant child commanded, “Change locations, change locations!” Both boys scrambled on their hands and knees to a new hiding place, presumably the next table over.

D.J. tried to scooch out, using her elbows and knees, but getting out from under the table wasn’t nearly as easy as climbing beneath it in the first place, and a pair of work-boot-shod feet entered her line of vision before she had time to straighten.

A hand appeared before her face, palm up. She took it.

Work roughened but warm and large, Maxwell Lotorto’s big mitt made hers feel small and feminine—quite a shock given that in elementary school the other girls had voted her “biggest girl’s hand in fifth grade.”

As her eyes adjusted to the light, she noted the surprise—then suspicion—in his gaze. He definitely recognized her from yesterday.

Letting go of her hand, Max watched her steadily, no doubt awaiting an explanation, and D.J. would have loved to provide one, but her mouth was so dry she had to lick her lips again, and in truth she hadn’t thought of an explanation for something like this.

Finally he spoke for her. “So why, he wonders, has the lady come back to hide under his table?”

“Good question.” She had to smile, nodding her appreciation. “I’d start there. But I wasn’t hiding, actually. I was becoming acquainted with two very personable young men. Yours, I assume?”

More giggling from the next table over. Hands moving to his hips, Max glanced the boys’way. “Get out here, you two. It’s time for lunch.”

The twin brothers scampered out to stand side by side before Max. “Go next door. Frankie made tuna.”

“Yuck! Free Willy sandwiches.” Once again Sean was not shy about his position.

Max shook his head. “Don’t start. Free Willy was a whale.”

James’s eyes grew wide. “I’m not eatin’ whale!”

While Max’s body vibrated with the effort to maintain his patience, D.J.’s shook with the attempt to suppress laughter. The poor guy looked exhausted, which, for D.J.’s purposes wasn’t such a bad thing.

Issuing his next directive as a not-to-be-flouted command, Max said, “Tuna is not a whale. It comes out of a can. Frank went to the trouble of making you lunch, so don’t insult him. And FYI, I don’t advise climbing under tables if you want to meet girls.” His gaze returned to D.J. “They hardly ever hang out there.”

James giggled. “She’s not a girl.”

While Max returned his attention to the boy, D.J. shivered for a reason most unprofessional. The man had eyes like a winter ocean: stormy and moody, beckoning with mystery and secret. His expression today was far less open than it had been yesterday, but when he held her gaze it seemed he was daring her to look away. As an investigator, D.J. felt enjoyably challenged. As a woman, she felt…ensnared.

That wasn’t good.

“Lunch,” Max told the boys again in a flat tone that brooked no refusal. “Ice cream later if you finish everything.”

The boys looked at each other with huge, eager eyes. They raced off, leaving D.J. alone in the vacant restaurant with Max.

Her subject had dressed casually in worn jeans, a red cotton shirt with the tail out and his boots. He was in the mood for work, not play, a fact his next words confirmed.

“It’s a busy day around here. What can I do for you?”

There’s the door, what’s your hurry, eh? Determined not to take offense, D.J. reminded herself she was also here for work.

Years of faking confidence until she’d actually acquired some made her back straight and her shoulders square. She smiled. “You can let me make your life simpler.”

He reared back ever so slightly, but that hint of surprise told D.J. she’d just taken the upper hand.

“How,” Max said, “do you propose to do that?”

“By working for you.” D.J. tossed her head, flicking her dark hair behind her. “You probably don’t remember me,” she demurred, realizing full well that he did. “I stopped by your bar last night. I see you’re opening a restaurant and you’re going to need a staff. I’ve been involved in the restaurant business for years.” D.J. looked him straight in the eye and refrained from adding, but only if you consider how often I eat in them. “I can do whatever. Wait tables, be a hostess.” She glanced around. “Hammer a few nails.” She didn’t mention the children yet, or his need for child care. All in good time.

Max eyed her up and down, his scrutiny so blatant she didn’t know whether to pose or cross her arms over her chest.

“You’re not from around here.”

“I was passing through town yesterday evening,” she told him, using the simple story she’d concocted to explain her appearance in a small-town bar, dressed to the hilt, and her subsequent desire to look for work here. “I was on my way home from a friend’s wedding. It was quite a bash. Naturally, I don’t dress like that for job interviews.”

“Where’s home and where was the party?”

“Ashland.” D.J. named a city south of Gold Hill. “That’s where the wedding was. And I’m from Portland.”

“Portland. Aren’t there any waitress jobs in Portland?”

“Sure.” Taking a deep breath, she put a sad little wriggle into the exhale. “But so are my fiancé and his new girlfriend.”

As a little girl, D.J. had heard a story about an angel who wrote down everything a person said or did, recording the entries in a big book for God to read when He was deciding who got into Heaven and who didn’t. There was a page for good acts and one for sins. If the angel existed and was listening to half of what she’d said so far today, she was in deep doo-doo.

The frown marring Max’s handsome brow dropped lower. His lips pursed as he digested the information she was feeding him. She didn’t want him to work at it too long.

“I really want to relocate to someplace peaceful, and I’m going to need a job right away. If you already have a full staff, maybe you know of another restaurant job in the area? I don’t mind the dirty work. Even dishwashing is fine.” She curled her polished fingers into her palm, hoping he had a nice big dishwasher in his kitchen. “Oh, and by the way,” she said as if the thought had just occurred to her, “I baby-sit, too. I mean, if you and your wife or someone you know ever needs anyone.”

Smooth, Daisy. Oh, smooth. Make him think it’s not all about him. “I know this is a small town, and there may not be much work, so I’m willing to be flexible. And cheap for the first month trial period.” And if that don’t grab you, Mr. Lotorto, I can’t imagine what will.

Maxwell’s brow arched perceptibly with each fib she told. He was definitely mulling it over. “How flexible are you willing to be?”

Daisy shrugged. “Make me an offer.”

Max wanted to bite the hook; she could tell. “How do you feel about full-time work with kids?” he asked.

She plastered an enthusiastic smile over her natural trepidation. “I love kids. Your boys are great.”

“How do you feel about them 24/7?”

“So, just to get this straight. You want a babysitter? Someone to watch your children while you’re working?” So far this was playing out the way she’d intended it to. D.J.’s maternal instincts were nil, but hanging out at the restaurant or at Max’s home, watching the kids would give her a chance to observe Max up close and personal, and a few hours of playing cops and robbers under the tables wouldn’t kill her.

Max frowned over her question. “No.” He gave a quick, sharp shake of his head. “I don’t want a babysitter. I need a nanny.”

Good Lord. A nanny? Nannies were responsible for discipline. Nannies were responsible for feeding. Nannies…

Lived in.

“I could be a nanny,” D.J. blurted before she let herself think twice. The investigator in her could no more turn down the opportunity to spend legitimate time in Maxwell Lotorto’s home than her inner clothes hog would say no to free Jimmy Choo shoes.

“Do you have experience with kids?” Max’s narrowed eyes suggested he might already be reconsidering his hasty overture.

“Do I have experience!” D.J. decided to lay it on thick. “I have thirteen brothers and sisters.”

Max’s astonishment was gratifying. “Thirteen?”

Give or take. A baker’s dozen was probably a conservative estimate of the boys and girls with whom she’d spent her early, early years. The fact was they were all foster siblings, some of whom D.J. had known a month on the outside, and she hadn’t seen any of them since she was twelve. She had never actually taken care of children, but growing up around them had to count for something.

Max ran a hand over his ink-dark hair and shook his head. “And I thought four was a handful.”

“Are you on your own with your children?”

“Yeah. Our housekeeper…retired recently.”

“Oh.” Retired, huh? If that scene on his front lawn had been a “retirement,” she’d machine wash all her hand-knit sweaters on Hot.

“Yeah. She was a great gal. The kids loved her. They’re very loving kids.”

“I’m sure they are.” Poor Max. His page in the recording angel’s book wasn’t going to look any better than hers. “That must have been very hard, losing someone you all counted on.”

“It hasn’t been easy. I’m working a lot, trying to get this restaurant opened. School doesn’t start for another few weeks, and I don’t want to put the kids in day care.” He was starting to appear endearingly less cocky, more earnest. “We’ve had some upheavals here lately. I’d like to give the kids continuity.”

Which meant they hadn’t had any for a while. D.J. filed the information away for Loretta. She’d have to probe later and get further details.

For some reason, a fresh pang of guilt squeezed her chest. She reminded herself that this was a job. A good one.

“Do you have references?” he asked.

“For waitressing, not for babysitting,” D.J. said.

She’d already phoned Angelo at the gym and her neighbor Mrs. Pirello to tell them she might need a cover for a job she was working. They both owed her a few dozen favors and had family in the restaurant business. Devoted NYPD Blue fans, they had agreed immediately to help out.

“For waitressing I can get you a résumé. I don’t have anything on me, though.” Going whole hog, she grimaced, cheesily snapping her fingers. “Darn. Too bad I didn’t think to slip a résumé into my suitcase. I packed quite a few clothes, because I decided to vacation in the Rogue Valley for a week before the wedding. I could have started right away.”

He was still wavering, changing his mind about hiring someone with no experience. Never mind that the thought of caring for four kids could send her running for antacids; the fact that Max had second thoughts about hiring her made D.J. want to fight for the job.

C’mon, Maxie, give it up, she thought. Heck, if Loretta liked what D.J. had to report, Maxwell Lotorto and his kiddos would be richer than Oprah very shortly. Loretta wanted an heir, but she wanted one capable of running the family business. If Max proved to be responsible and genuine, with a head for business on his broad shoulders, then he would assume his rightful place in the family biz. He’d be able to hire a veritable Mary Poppins to be his nanny. A team of Mary Poppinses. D.J. figured Max might take exception to her subterfuge at first, but in the end he’d thank her. Who wouldn’t?

With the goal of entering the Lotorto home uppermost in her mind, Daisy had to thank her lucky stars for what happened next.

A tiny girl not much higher than Max’s knee, ran in from the lounge. The area all around her lips was stained red from something she’d eaten. Since she’d come from the bar, D.J. guessed she’d been filling up on maraschino cherries. There were tears in her eyes as she clung to Max’s leg, and her bright red lips quivered.

“Sean says I ate Free Willy! I don’t want to eat a whale!”

The tiny person let loose a torrent of sobs worthy of a Broad way star. Her hollering apparently drew the three other children. Even before Max could admonish the boys for goading their sister, they began to heatedly defend themselves while the elder girl patted the little one—maybe a bit too hard—on the back. As the little one cried, spurts of tears arced from her eyes as if they were tiny fountains. Then she leaned forward and barfed on Max’s shoes.

Max looked down then up, locking gazes with D.J. “Get your suitcase and meet me back here at three. You’re hired.”

“And this is the master bedroom,” Maxwell said, concluding an abbreviated tour of the rustic, ranch-style house set on two un-landscaped acres along Sardine Creek Road in Gold Hill, Oregon. “I haven’t had time to move all my things out yet, but make yourself at home.”

He’d rushed D.J. through the kitchen, living and dining areas and hadn’t shown her the kids’ rooms yet at all. For good reason, too, D.J. guessed. The house looked like a family of monkeys inhabited it. Obviously, Max had made a quick trip home earlier in the day to arrange the endless stacks of papers, books and games into some approximation of order; but riotous piles of loose things, and garbage pails overflowing with paper cups, cereal boxes and who knew what else, wouldn’t win the Good Housekeeping seal of approval. The brief—very brief—glimpse he’d allowed her of the kitchen had almost made her call Loretta to quit.

Turning to Max, she plastered a game smile over her misgivings. She was no coward. If she had to, she could suck it up and restore order to this pigsty. “Thanks. I’m sorry to be kicking you out of your room.”

Behind the fatigue, a flash of wry humor lit his light eyes. “I’d sleep in the backyard on a bed of nails if it’d help get this household on track.”

“When did it go off track?” D.J. punctuated her question by swinging her suitcase onto the well-made bed. Clearly Max had taken more trouble with this room than with the others. If there’d been any reminders of the children’s mother—photos, clothing—it was all gone now.

D.J. knew her curiosity was a tad more than professional. Aside from being big and strong and darkly gorgeous, Max appeared to have boundless patience with his kids. He really enjoyed them, which made D.J. endlessly curious about the woman whose absence was forcing him to secure child care. Where was she? Was she coming back?

Unfortunately, D.J. sensed already that Max was not a spill-his-guts-on-the-first-date kind of guy, so she would keep everything casual for the next day or so. It wasn’t going to be easy. Protective of her own information, D.J. nonetheless had a natural curiosity about other people—how they’d been raised, what their families were like, how they lived. In high school she’d frequently been in trouble for talking too much, and in one of her first jobs, as a cashier, she’d almost been canned for interrogating her customers. She’d developed more subtlety since then.

To convey a relaxed attitude, she unsnapped her suitcase, intending to unpack while she spoke. “So are you completely on your own with the kids?”

“Yeah.” Max had hesitated a second before he answered.

Taking a chance, she pressed just a bit. “Has it been that way for long?”

Max hovered near the door. He spotted some loose change lying on the dresser, scooped it up and put it in his pocket. D.J. sensed he was stalling. “It’s a long story. I’ll fill you in later. Right now I’ve got to get back to the tavern. My lead bartender fell off a damn roof and broke his ankle this morning, so I’ve got the night shift until he can work or I can find someone to cover.”

“You’re leaving?” The rush of pure fear that shot through her veins amazed D.J. Not being able to question Max further didn’t bother her nearly as much as the thought of being left alone with the kids so soon. “Uh, I’d hoped you could stick around, acquaint me with the routine.”

“You’ve probably gathered by now that there isn’t one.” He smiled, and for a moment the one-sided quirk of his lips completely distracted her. “Besides, with your background, you’ll be able to teach me a thing or two. Thirteen brothers and sisters.” Max whistled softly. “I was an only child, so to me four kids is the equivalent of a preschool. I was able to get hold of your former employers, by the way. They gave you glowing recommendations. Said you’re a crackerjack waitress. Very organized and good with people. I’d say those are excellent qualities to apply to child care.”

D.J. smiled a little weakly. “I’d say so.”

Max leaned a shoulder onto the door frame. “Don’t worry about anything. The kids seemed to like you.”

Au contraire. The kids had stared at her with big eyes and distinct doubt when he’d introduced her as their nanny. She couldn’t show fear, trembling and trepidation, though. Not after the song and dance she’d given him.

“Okay. Yeah, we’ll have a great time. Hope your bartender’s better soon.”

Still seated on Max’s bed a full ten minutes after he’d left the house, D.J. clasped her hands on her knees, back rigid as a steel girder. She felt as though she was waiting outside the principal’s office. She couldn’t seem to get the information from her head to her gut that from here on in she was the principal.

Max had started a video for the kids, who were still in the living room and still quiet, but she knew she had to get out there soon. For one thing, she’d conned him into believing her housekeeping skills were on a par with her child care abilities. Which they were.

Unfortunately.

Slapping her knees, D.J. stood and shook the nerves from her body. Time to sally forth and set a few precedents for running this house; she couldn’t spend all her time corralling children. Matter of fact, she’d have to come up with a few clean-up projects to keep the kids busy so she could focus on Max when he was home.

Cracking her neck and rolling her shoulders to loosen up, D.J. commanded her feet to move toward the door. She’d work in a quiet yoga session later, but now it was time to get out there.

Wishing she’d thought to buy a couple of toys, utterly willing to resort to bribery right off the bat, she walked sprightly down the hall, clapping her hands as she neared the living room. “Okay, kiddos, ready to have some fun? I… Ah!” The sight that greeted D.J. stopped her dead in her tracks and elicited a swear word before she could censor herself.

Four children and one can of whipped topping had wreaked havoc on the already disrupted living room. Ribbons and clouds of the stuff covered the coffee table, sofa, windowsills. “What are you doing?” Heaven help her, but she swore again.

One of the twins responded. “You said a baddie.”

Yes, she had. And now she was speechless.

“She sa-id—” The other curly headed brother began a singsong recounting of her indiscretion, using the word several times in succession.

“James, stop that,” D.J. ordered.

“I’m Sean! And you sa-id—”

The youngest child, Livie, sat on the sofa with a huge teddy bear at her feet, clumsily ladling ice cream out of a half-gallon container. Both the bear and the child, D.J. noticed, had ice cream mustaches. “She said a baddie, she said a baddie…” Livie chanted, kicking her feet.

“All right, everybody stop saying that.” All she needed was for Max to come home the first day to find that his kids had increased their vocabulary by one colorful curse.

Anabel, the older girl, sat in a chair, her eyes glued to the TV. One of the twins, the one who wasn’t Sean, started squirting the table again.

“Hey!” D.J. sprang into action, hopping over assorted toys to grab the offending item from James’s hand. “What is this?” She turned the plastic container over in her hands. “Squeezable mayonnaise?”

“We ranned out of whip cream.”

“All right, give me anything edible.” They stared at her dumbly. “Fork over the food!” She held out her hands and motioned to the little dears. “All of it. Right now.” Collecting the can of whipped cream from Sean and the ice cream from Livie, whose lower lip started to quiver sadly, D.J. said, “There will be no more gourmet art as long as I’m here. Food belongs in bellies, not on tables or any other furniture. Is that understood?”

She received no response, other than big-eyed stares from the three younger children. Anabel continued to watch the TV. “Excuse me,” D.J. said, stepping into her line of vision. “You seem somewhat normal. May I ask what you were doing while your brothers and sisters were destroying the living room?”

Brown eyes, large and beautiful behind a pair of silver-rimmed glasses, and dramatically more solemn than the dancing blue eyes of the other children, gazed at D.J. “I was waiting for you to come out of the bedroom.”

Right. Anabel: one. D.J.: zero. “Well, I’m out now, so here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to clean up this living room. Then—”

“I’m hungry,” James said.

Sean echoed immediately, “Me, too. I’m starving.”

Livie said plaintively, “Is it time for dinner yet?”

D.J. stared. Were they joking? You could start a burger franchise with what they’d spread on the coffee table. “Didn’t you eat anything while you were doing that?” She pointed to what looked like a model of Mt. Everest.

Sean shook his head. “That was for Livie’s bear. It’s his birthday.”

The little girl nodded hard. “He wanted to play ice cream parlor.”

With a heavy sigh and a shake of her exotically dark head, Anabel slid off her chair to approach D.J. “I’ll take these things to the kitchen,” she said, removing the ice cream and other weapons of living room destruction from D.J.’s arms. “You’d better get the kids something to eat before they have a major meltdown.”

The girl trooped off to the kitchen, and D.J. felt a ridiculous urge to call out, “Don’t leave me!” despite the fact that Anabel, too, was only a child. But at least she seemed to know what she was doing. Taking a deep breath, D.J. said, “All right. We’ll clean up here, and then we’ll eat some dinner. Okay?”

Ending with a question was her first mistake. Sean leaped up. “Jamie’s starving,” he informed in a sudden show of brotherly support.

“So’s Livie.” Jamie jumped up, too.

Swinging her legs, Livie picked up her previous chant. “You said a baddie…you said a baddie….”

D.J. wanted Max to come back. Right now. In the restaurant he had juggled all four kids, kept his sense of humor and managed to appear relatively sane. Of course, he’d had practice at this. He’d given her his cell phone number; she could call him for a little five-minute-advice session. She could imagine him responding in that half-wry, half-soothing tone he had and felt better already.

Unfortunately, she could also imagine him wondering what kind of wimp he had hired, and that did not sit well at all.

Whipped cream and mayonnaise slipped in glops from the table to the carpet. Livie’s bear dripped ice cream onto the sofa.

The boys joined their sister’s chant.

And D.J. realized she wasn’t nearly as tough as she’d thought.