She grabbed Loretta’s hand and marched back into the house. “If I were your mother, I’d send you to your room right now.”
“I had a nanny. She told me she’d have daddy spank me. But he never did. I know when people are bad,” Loretta finished reassuringly.
“Right, because translucent bubbles are good even if they’re twisted.” Evie pointed at the banquette seat in the breakfast nook. “Sit. Explain. Eggs or cereal?”
“Donuts.” The kid climbed up on the bench and Psy immediately leaped into her lap.
“No donuts. Eggs or cereal, then explain.” Evie was veryveryfocused this morning. She hadn’t been able to open her third eye to examine auras, but those two men glowed all on their own.
Nine
Reuben whistledfrom the back of the van. “That’s one badass woman you found there, bro.”
Reuben had degrees from Duke and MIT. But as the kid had noted, he had a twisted mind, if not whatever a bubble was.
“Her kitchen is out of Oz. If Bubble Witch is your thing, then get your crooked asses inside. You have effectively blown your covers to hell at the hands of a ten-year-old.” Jax didn’t wait for a reply but stomped back inside, furious with himself and the world.
He’d let akidget past him. She could have run anywhere. Yeah, he was a lawyer and not a prison guard, but he should have known by now that Loretta was an escape artist.
He hadn’t realized she wanted to escape Evie.
And she hadn’t. She’d just been a normal kid exploring her territory. He’d have done the same.
He was never going to have kids. He didn’t have time for daily heart attacks. At least his sister stayed where he put her.
He offered up another prayer of gratitude for the Stocktons. The rainy night when the police had taken his twelve-year-old self out of his parents’ comfortable home and placed him and over-sensitive Ariel in a crowded, noisy foster home, with kids stacked to the ceilings, was indelibly engraved on his memory. The next day, when his father’s boss and his wife had taken them in, he’d vowed never to be bad again. Stephen Stockton might be a royal pain in the ass, but he’d saved their lives. Ariel would never have survived the foster system.
Jax knew how Loretta felt, having her feet yanked out from under her with the loss of her parents. He’d deliberately been blocking that memory for years.
Evie was sliding French toast on Loretta’s plate when he entered the kitchen. The kid poured a lake of syrup over it.Normalkid, Jax repeated. But even normal kids required routine maintenance.
The genie had accepted that fact without complaint or demands for money. His cynical radar didn’t kick in, even though that behavior was beyond the boundaries of all he knew as normal.
He must be hungry.
“Mavis is bringing coffee from Gertie’s. French toast for you? I don’t do bacon.” She waited, spatula raised.
Coffee? The mind-reading old witch was reading his mind—or she preferred coffee to her daughter’s tea. Jax sat across from the kid on the old-fashioned banquette. “Coffee is good. French toast is fine, thank you. Do you not eat bacon or did you run out?”
“Can’t afford bacon and no longer like it.” She splatted more toast on the griddle.
“I’ll buy groceries. It’s not your job to feed everyone. I’ll hire a cook.”
Evie glared at him. “This is Afterthought, South Carolina, population 3237. We have a dearth of available labor force. Even Pris works in the city. You’d have to hire Gertie away from her café. I’m perfectly capable of cooking for Loretta. The rest of you will be gone shortly, right?”
“Not until I’m assured of Loretta’s security.” However in hell he managed that with a public school and insane people as her caretaker.
“His bubble is the size of a walnut,” Loretta said cheerfully, addressing Evie. “But walnuts grow into big trees, don’t they?”
“Ones that grow mistletoe.” Evie flipped the toast, sounding much too gleeful. “Explain about bubbles, please.”
Jax needed his coffee before he heard this.
Carrying duffels, Roark and Reuben entered, providing a welcome interruption.
He pointed at the room he’d used last night, belatedly recognizing it as a servant’s room for the cook Evie didn’t have.
Reuben was a tall, lean nerd—ebony, with a modest Afro pulled into a man bun and adorned with a finger bone. Instead of tattoo art, he had scarring on his cheekbones and forehead. Jax hadn’t asked—none of them did personal. But he assumed Reuben was identifying his tribe, even though Reuben had been born in Miami to middle-class professors. Jax got that. Sometimes a man had to make a statement.