Page 68

I pull off my shirt, a text rolling in, and I pick up the phone again, reading.

Come find us, Hawke writes.

Huh? Us?

I pull on some jeans, a bra, and one of the T-shirts Dylan brought, and take my phone, leaving the room.

Heading down the hall in my bare feet, I check his room, the great room and kitchen, and the tunnel leading to Rivertown. I look through the mirror, but the place is dark, closed until lunch time.

Where is he?

And then I remember. Frosted.

I jog back through the kitchen and down the other tunnel, seeing the bakery come into view through the glass. Tables and chairs sit around the room, the shades drawn and the light dim. But as I peer to the left, I spot the kitchen door propped open and a light on inside.

I hit the latch and step through as the mirror opens.

Laughter goes off from the kitchen, from more than one person, and I move toward it but stop. Doubling back, I pull the mirror closed, leaving just a crack open in case the owner comes through the front door unexpectedly. Or the police.

Walking across the shop, I enter the kitchen, seeing Matty and Bianca with Hawke.

My heart leaps and drops at the same time. Bianca stands at the work table, still looking like she’s dressed in her sleep shorts and top, while Matty sits on his legs on a stool, flattening a circle of dough with his hands. Flour covers his arms, and he laughs. Hawke stands behind him.

Bianca sees me in the doorway and smiles. “Hey.”

“H-hey,” I say in a shaky voice. I slowly step inside. “What are you doing here?”

I look to Hawke, but Bianca answers. “Hawke came and got us,” she replies. “Knocked on the door this morning and asked if I wanted to bring Matty to see you.”

She runs over and puts an arm around me, pulling me over by the neck.

“And you just jumped in a car with someone you didn’t know?” I mumble.

I glance at Hawke, and he looks at me, amusement in his eyes.

“Well, I know he’s the mayor’s nephew,” she says, rolling a piece of dough into a little ball on the counter. “And Matty loves his car.”

Hawke leans over, taking a cloth and dusting off my brother’s hands.

Bianca gapes at me, mouthing. “And he’s cute. Like soooooo cute.”

Then she side-eyes me, like I need to get busy with that. I purse my lips, looking away as Hawke heads over, wrapping an apron around my waist.

“Are you sure you weren’t followed?” I ask him.

If they saw his car in my neighborhood, they could’ve tailed him.

But he assures me, “I wasn’t followed.”

He ties the strings around my waist, my arms hanging at my side. “So, that’s how it is then?” I inquire. “You can leave without telling me where you’re going, but I can’t leave without you knowing where I am?”

“Exactly.” He comes around my front, smiling. “Are you seriously going to pick a fight right now? I can take them home, if you want—”

“Shut up.” And I make my way over to my brother, hearing Hawke’s quiet laugh behind me.

I wrap my arms around the kid, pressing my cheek to his. “What are we making?”

“Pizza!” he cheers.

“It’s nine in the morning!” I gasp, and growl playfully as I nibble his cheeks. “You can’t have pizza!”

He squirms from my tickling, pealing with screams and laughter.

I meet Hawke’s eyes, softening, because I’m glad he did this. It’s been a long time since Bianca, Matty, and I got to have fun together.

“And then we get to have sundaes!” Matty shouts.

But Hawke holds up his finger, giving my brother a stern look. “On one condition,” he says.

Matty hesitates and then yells, as if on cue, “Chicago-style pizza sucks!” And then again, “It sucks! It sucks! It sucks!”

Oh, Christ.

Bianca laughs, Matty giggles, and Hawke grins, so satisfied.

“Preying on innocent minds that don’t know any better?” I ask him.

He shrugs. “Just setting him on the straight and narrow while he’s young.”

I throw a ball of dough at him, Matty laughs and follows suit, doing the same.

Hawke flings one at his nose, and Matty giggles, grabbing for it on the table to throw it back, but when he whips out his hand, the plastic container of sauce tumbles and spills down the side of the table.

We all watch it drip to the floor.

“Aro?” Matty cries, turning to me, his eyes darting between Hawke and me.

“It’s okay,” I say, grabbing a towel to catch the sauce before it spills more. “It happens.”

His fingers go to his mouth. “Is he mad?”

I look to Hawke, who’s already grabbing some paper towels. He hears the question and turns, confusion in his eyes.

But I just smile at my brother and stay calm. “No.”

It doesn’t stop him from crying, though, and he keeps looking at Hawke, waiting for his temper.