Chelsea closes her eyes and breathes deep, making those fabulous tits press against her blouse even more. I enjoy the show, praying for a button to pop or for the sink to spontaneously spurt water all over that white shirt.

A guy can dream.

“Riley, what are your chores this week?”

“I have to set the table for dinner.”

Her voice is kind but firm. “Okay. Rosaleen, you’ll do your sister’s chores for the rest of the week. And when you get your allowance on Sunday, you’ll use it to replace the lipstick you ruined. Understood?”

“Okay. Sorry, Riley.”

Chelsea runs a tender hand through Rosaleen’s messy curls. “Now, go upstairs and wash your face, then come set the table.”

With a nod, she hops off the counter and skips past me up the steps.

Her sister vehemently objects. “That’s it? That’s all you’re doing to her?”

Chelsea sighs, a little annoyed. “She’s seven, Riley. What do you want me to do—beat her with a stick?”

“It’s not fair!” she bellows. So much fucking louder than necessary.

“Sometimes life isn’t. The sooner you understand that, the better off you’ll be.”

Riley smacks the counter. “I hate this family!”

In a whirl of brown hair and fury, she stomps up the stairs, glaring at me along the way. Like I ruined her fucking lipstick.

“Sweet girl,” I tell Chelsea dryly.

“She’s fourteen. It’s a tough age.” She looks wistfully up the steps. “She’ll be human again . . . eventually.”

5

Sorry about that,” Chelsea says, grabbing a block that was kicked across the floor during the skirmish and handing it to the toddler. Next she walks back to the stove, dumping a heap of chopped greens from a colander into the boiling pot. Her movements are effortlessly graceful, and I wonder if she’s a dancer. “You started to tell me about Rory?”

“Right. He—”

But of course I don’t get to tell her. That would be too easy.

Instead I’m cut off by the appearance of a young boy walking through the kitchen door—a boy with Rory’s face. He’s slightly thinner, a little taller, with round, wire-rimmed Harry Potter glasses perched on his nose.

I can’t keep the horror out of my tone. “There’s two of him?”

Chelsea grins. “If that’s your way of asking if Rory has a twin, then the answer is yes.”

“I see you’ve met my brother,” the boy says, apparently used to this reaction. “Don’t judge me just because we share the same DNA. You’ve heard the term ‘evil genius’?”

“Yeah.”

“Rory’s the evil. I’m the genius.”

“How many kids live in this house exactly?” I ask the aunt.

It’s starting to feel like they’re cockroaches—see one, and you can bet there’s fifty more crawling around inside the walls. I shiver at the thought.

“Six.”

Six? I’m guessing Robert McQuaid didn’t have many hobbies.

The boy retrieves a black skateboard from the corner and tells his aunt, “I’m going to Walter’s next door.”

“Okay. Make sure you put your helmet on, Raymond.”

The kid groans. “It makes me look like a dork.”

“And when you’re in a coma after fracturing your skull on the pavement, you think you’ll look . . . cool?”

Rory’s smartassness is obviously genetic.

“No,” Raymond whines. “It’s just . . .” He turns to me. “You’re a guy—you understand what I mean. Explain it to her.”

“Yes”—Chelsea crosses her arms—“explain to me how having a penis excuses you from the laws of gravity.”

“Oh my god!” Raymond hisses, his ears and cheeks blooming fire-engine red. “Don’t say that.”

“What?” She looks from him to me. “What’d I say?”

I shrug because I have no fucking clue.

“Penis?” she guesses.

And Raymond does a fabulous impression of a tomato. “Oh my god! You’re so humiliating!” He grabs his skateboard and flees.

“Helmet, Raymond!” Chelsea calls. “Or that skateboard will be roasting in the fireplace tonight!”

She looks at me with a sigh and a smile. “It’s the little joys that get me through the day.”

And I have the urge to laugh. Chelsea’s not only hot, she’s . . . entertaining, too.

She moves back to the stove and starts to lift the heavy gargantuan pot, and I quickly step closer and take it from her hands. “I got it.”

“Thank you.” She directs me to a ceramic bowl on the counter and I carefully pour the hot broth, with its white chunks and strips of green, into the bowl. Then we stand just inches apart, those crystal-blue beauties fixed on me.

“So . . . how did you meet my nephew, Mr. Becker?”

I give it to her straight, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “He stole my wallet, Chelsea. Right on the street. Bumped into me, slipped his hand in my pocket, and then took off.”

Her eyes slide closed and her shoulders hunch. “Oh.” After a moment, she rubs her forehead, then lifts her chin and looks up at me. “I am so, so sorry.”

I wave my hand. “It’s okay.”

Her voice goes soft, with a ring of sorrow. “He’s taken it really hard. I mean, they all have, of course, but Rory is just so . . .”

“Angry,” I say, finishing for her.