David’s forehead filled with worry lines. “You’re going to look after a two-year-old? You?”
“She’s going to be great!” Lizzy couldn’t have smiled any brighter or less convincingly if she tried. “Excellent bonding time between aunty and nephew.”
“Exactly,” I agreed. “Anyway, how hard can it be?”
“What do you know about children?” asked David. “I mean, you couldn’t even keep a mouse alive.”
“That wasn’t my fault.” This was the problem with associating with people who’d known you during your childhood. “It got sick.”
“You killed a mouse?” Lizzy’s expression morphed to something much less confident.
Ben scratched at his beard. “I’d forgotten about that.”
“Only reason you remembered to feed it and give it water was because I reminded you every day,” said David, who really needed to fuck off right about now. Not helpful at all. Not that I expected him to be.
“I would have remembered eventually.” A headache was coming on, I could feel it. “I was sixteen. Everyone’s useless when they’re sixteen.”
“So what was your excuse for the following decade then?” Ben snickered at his own genius.
In true sisterly fashion, I thumped him in the arm. Mostly it just hurt my hand, the muscly bastard. Family and exes sucked. Maybe I should just go back to New York. Out of nowhere, a shiver worked its way down my spine. Nope. New York wasn’t an option.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” said my brother, patting me on the head. Like it hadn’t taken me quality time to get the slicked-back ponytail just right. The idiot. “Sorry, Martha. I have confidence you won’t let my child die like you did the poor innocent mouse. May it rest in peace.”
Meanwhile, open alarm filled the child’s mother’s eyes at the jokes.
“Nothing will happen to Gibby, I promise,” I said, grabbing her hand. “You trust me, don’t you?”
“Sure. Of course.” And that did not sound convincing. Her giving my brother a worried glance didn’t boost my confidence either. Perhaps this was a bad idea. I was a hell of a long way from Mary Poppins. Even if I did happen to love the kid in question.
“Sweetheart, it’ll be fine.” Ben kissed her on the cheek, tightening his hold. “Seriously, relax. We’re just giving Martha shit. But she’s a mature responsible adult and I’ll be right there in the house if there’s a problem. Sam will be there too. There’ll be plenty of people around to help out if need be.”
“Okay.” This time her smile didn’t seem quite so panicked at least. I wished it hadn’t taken the mention of Sam to ease her mind about my inability to look after her child. But such was life.
Shoulders squared and tits out, I presented my most confident face. “I can do this.”
CHAPTER TWO
“You’ve got yogurt in your hair.”
“He threw it at me.” Shoulders slumped, I sat on the carpet, some godawful children’s show blaring from the TV. “I can’t do this. The kid hates me.”
“Martha.” Sam sighed. “He’s two and a half and doesn’t even know you. Give it a chance.”
The he in question, Gibson Thunderbird Rollins-Nicholson, stared rapt at the screen as animated dogs pulled off a daring rescue. Crazy name for a little kid. Being born a musician’s progeny clearly came with the risk of being named after their favourite instrument. Meanwhile, the executive protection officer leaned against a nearby wall with his arms crossed over his broad chest. A small towel was slung over one buff shoulder and he wore workout gear. Guess he’d been making use of the private gym.
Ben and Lizzy hadn’t stinted on the place. A sprawling Georgian Colonial in one of the fancier areas of Portland. Of course, the former ballroom/indoor basketball court had been converted into a recording studio and band practice area. My brother only really cared about two things, music and family, so no big surprise about the remodelling. Not that I’d been counting on them throwing any large parties to keep me entertained. Those wild days of groupies, models, and film stars hanging around and swinging off the chandeliers were long gone. Probably for the best.
“David was right, I don’t know a thing about children,” I said, feeling deeply sorry for myself. “I figured I spent years running around after rock stars, catering to their every whim. How different could it be? So he’s shorter and doesn’t know how to express himself particularly well. All Mal ever did was babble incoherently at me. Some days I basically had to wipe the drool off that maniac’s chin. After him, Gibson should be a dream, right?”
“Not so much, huh?”
“Not so much.”
“What’s wrong with your eye? It’s a bit red,” he asked, leaning closer.
“Huh? Oh, it got yogurt in it too,” I lied, turning away. “I’ve been rubbing it.”
“Ah.”