His fingertips were really rough and callused as I flipped my palm up to hold his hand in place. His fingers stretched out past the tops of my own. His hand was so much wider and almost as tan as mine; you could barely see my hand beneath his. Giving him a quick, reassuring smile that wasn’t exactly returned, I scooped out a drop of honey and set it on his cut with the tip of the butter knife I’d used, still holding him steady.

“Louie’s allergic to first aid cream. He gets a rash and blisters from it, so I don’t bother buying it anymore,” I explained. With a skill I’d picked up after taking care of so many of the boys’ cuts, I unpeeled the paper off the bandage with one hand and carefully wrapped it around his thumb, the pad of my thumb brushing against the side of his injured one, my other fingers dancing across his hard skin.

His question came out of the blue. “What happened to your finger?”

I blinked and glanced at my own hands. It took me a second to find the finger he was talking about, and I flexed it. There was a ragged line about a half-inch long on the index finger of my left hand from where I’d cut myself with my shears during a haircut two days ago. “I cut it at work.” And it had bled like a bitch.

“What did you put on it?” he asked, obviously taking in the goopy line along the seam of the wound.

“Super glue. It works like a charm, but yours isn’t deep enough to need it,” I explained, my attention downward. “I’m really sorry about your cut.”

“It was an accident,” he replied, sounding really close to me.

That had me lifting my head, grimacing. “Still, I’m sorry.”

Those hazel eyes were even and steady on my boring brown ones. He was probably six inches away from me, tops. He drew his hand away from mine and took a step back. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

The smile I gave him was so tight it made my cheeks ache. “All right. If you insist.” I tilted my head toward the stove. Sometimes friendships were built on baby steps, weren’t they? He could have said he didn’t want to come over when Trip invited him, and he could have pretended he didn’t have an Xbox for Louie to play on. He was trying, and I damn well was, too. I could do this. “How do you want your steak cooked? Burnt, perfect, or pink?”

His mouth twisted to the corner as he blinked. “Burnt.”

“Burnt it is,” I said, turning to face the stove.

There was a moment of silence before he asked, “We good?”

Of course, I turned to look at him over my shoulder. “Yeah, we are.” I blinked right back at him. “If I do anything to make you uncomfortable, just let me know. I don’t really have a verbal filter.” I thought about it for a second and added, “And I’m a little touchy-feely, but I don’t mean anything by it, so just tell me. It’s not a big deal. I won’t cry. I’ll tell you if I have a problem with something.”

Dallas made a sound that might have been a snort. “I’m getting that.”

I smiled awkwardly and maybe a bit tightly at him then turned back to face the stove when his question came.

“Since we’re good, can I ask why you have Pop-Tarts in your back pocket?”

Chapter Ten

“Josh, I swear to God—”

“I’m coming!”

I did the sign of the cross with one hand, eyeing the face of my cell phone with a grumble. We were running fifteen minutes late, and while I didn’t have to be at work until eight forty-five, I still hated Josh and Lou getting to school after it started. Rushing drove me bonkers, even though I seemed to be running behind half the time anyway. More like three-fourths of the time if I was going to be totally honest with myself. And if I was going to be even more honest with myself, this whole not-getting-places-on-time business didn’t start until the boys became mine.

“Joshua!” I yelled just as Louie lifted his red school Polo shirt up from his spot next to me, showing the empty space where a belt needed to be. “Goo, you forgot your belt.”

He looked down like he didn’t believe me and immediately took off down the hall back toward his room with his shoulders stooped. That should have told me what kind of day it was going to be. Louie didn’t usually walk anywhere like he was headed for his execution.

“Joshua Ernesto Casillas,” I hollered again, two seconds away from losing it. I’d woken him up at the same time I always did. He’d even stood up and started putting his pants on right in front of me before I left the room, but by the time fifteen minutes had passed and he still hadn’t come out of there, I had gone to check on him, only to find him asleep again, sitting on the mattress with his pants at his knees in only his tighty-whities.

“I said I’m coming!”

“You also told me last week you were going to stop ‘resting your eyes’ after I woke you up, but from the looks of it, that hasn’t happened either,” I snapped, gripping the very edges of my patience.

There was a pause before, “I’m sorry!” What a faker.

He should be sorry, but I knew I needed to accept his apology before he stopped giving them. I was worried, if I guilt-tripped him too much, at some point it would stop being effective. “I forgive you but come on, man! Chop, chop!”

Two seconds later, the older brother followed the younger one down the hall, clutching two backpacks, two jackets, and a baseball bag between them. The Larsens were taking him to batting practice tonight. I waved them on, locking the door behind them as we basically all ran toward the car… until Josh stopped and threw his hands up. “I forgot my helmet!”