I nod, “Pasta is good. Any preference on sauce?”
He looks up at Beckett, “What’s that white stuff called?”
Beckett clears his throat before answering, and I have to bite my lips to keep from laughing. “Alfredo.”
* * *
The boys have been at it for hours.
True to his word, the two of them left for a bit around lunchtime coming back with to-go drinks and white paper bags. Beckett offered to pick me up something, but I passed, opting to make a quick sandwich before heading to the grocery store to get stuff to make dinner.
The timer alerting me to strain the noodles sounds just as the door to the house opens then closes.
At first, I was surprised when I saw that Beckett bought a whole new door to replace the faulty one, but then when I thought about it, I realized I wasn’t surprised at all. Just like I wasn’t really surprised that he bought a wireless keypad to install for my garage door and a new deadbolt with a keypad for the front door. Ensuring I’ll never be locked out even with every door firmly secured.
“Smells delicious!” Beckett herds Clint into the kitchen ahead of him.
“Hopefully it tastes good too,” hoisting the strained noodles up, I dump them into the pot with the alfredo sauce. Carefully stirring it all together.
After insisting I don’t need any help, the boys wash their hands at the sink, then take their seats at the table.
I plate up broccoli and roasted chicken on the side but am happily surprised when they both mix it all together and begin eating with vigor.
I ask questions about other projects they’ve done together, and they both answer while clearing their plates in record time. Whatever awkwardness Clint had been feeling earlier seems to have been shattered by a pile of pasta.
He’s barely finished his last bite when he turns to face me, “Can I have more?”
Beckett snorts, “This kid can eat as much as I do.”
I smile, “Would you like more, too?”
“You know I do.”
I purposefully don’t look at him as I refill their plates. I don’t know if it’s just me, but I swear I’m hearing an innuendo in everything he says.
Feeling chattier, Clint tells me all about his current teacher, the kids in his class, and why he thinks math is the worst subject ever. Outwardly I tell him why math is important, but inwardly I completely agree.
With a mouth still full of noodles, Clint asks, “Did you really make brownies, too?”
“Good god,” Beckett laughs, “can you at least finish swallowing before you ask for more.”
My eyes snap over to Beckett’s and just when I think I’m the only one with my mind in the gutter, Beckett looks up and winks.
This bastard.
Clint finishes his food, sticking his tongue out as proof, “There. Now can I have a brownie?”
Beckett sighs, “Dude, don’t ask me.”
Clint turns those puppy dog eyes on me.
“Yes, but we have to cook them first.”
His jaw drops open, “What?!”
“I could’ve baked them earlier, but then you wouldn’t be eating them right from the oven. And is there really anything better than a warm brownie… with ice cream?”
Clint’s lips press together, then gives in, “I guess not.”