If I ever thought it would come down to that, I would have made sure Toren never knew about Milo.
As it was, I didn’t try very hard to keep it a secret. Yes, I didn’t tell him, but I also continued staying in the same city. I didn’t keep my shop a secret, and I didn’t alter my appearance or change my name so I couldn’t be found.
I don’t want to call it leaving things to chance, and certainly not to fate. I believe in fate when it comes to my jewelry—that a certain piece is always meant to find the right owner—and I make my pieces with that intention, but I don’t believe in it for people.
I throw the car door open and basically slide like a slug onto the sidewalk. The car is so low that it’s a good thing the doors do that weird thing and open up to the sky. I can see why now. It’s because they would jam on the sidewalk and trap a person in otherwise. Whoever designed this thing knew what they were doing when it came to city streets and sidewalks. Of course, they wouldn’t have made it for normal, intelligent people who would only drive these monstrosities on a race track.
I thrust the front seat into the dash and duck in to try and get Milo out. It’s practically a fight between the seatbelt, the booster seat, Milo’s excited hands, and the car’s low as a freaky, sneaky snake roof.
I finally get him dislodged and yank him through the inch or so odd space in the freaking car. I swear, we’re getting a cab back home.
I find Toren staring at me when I turn back around. I’m wearing a dress, and not a fancy one either, just a black peplum with a flared skirt. It’s about knee length, and I really hope it didn’t ride up when I was turning myself into a contortionist just now. Toren isn’t looking at my legs or my chest. He’s looking at my face, and he has this big, goofy grin that proclaims him to be excited, and it does not seem to be from checking out my behind when I wasn’t aware. If it were, then it’ll be more of a guilty face, and I see none at all.
He’s kind of dressed up for this, and the fact that I figured he would be and put on a dress instead of jeans says I still know him at least a little bit. He looks incredible in his black pants, and the gray shirt he has on brings out the color of his eyes. It makes those little silver flecks dance in his irises.
“Wow,” Milo exclaims when he sees the house. “Someone actually lives here? This place looks like a castle.”
It doesn’t, really, since castles are usually made of stone, but neither of us corrects him.
Toren takes his son’s hand and proudly walks up to the door. I follow along, trying to prepare myself for the storm of Cromwells inside. They’ll all be friendly, I’m sure, but even on their best behavior, all of them together is a lot to handle.
We’ve obviously been anticipated and awaited because the door swings open, and Toren’s grandma is there, taking it up with her slight frame. She looks every bit as beautiful as she did the last time I saw her. Her silvery hair is curled, and it falls around loosely around her shoulders. It looks like a fresh-do from the salon. She might be old, but Granny has always been the epitome of style. The hot pink dress hugging her body, as well as her hot pink pumps, are something I couldn’t pull off in a million years.
“Well, lookie cookie, it’s my great-grandson!” Granny opens her arms with a delighted Granny squeal, and Milo, to his credit, rushes into them. He’s not scared since he’s been told all about how enthusiastic everyone is going to be.
It might have also been the mention of cookies. Cookies are a great motivator. Never underestimate the power of baked goods.
“I’m your great-granny,” Granny announces as she wraps Milo in a big hug. “I’ve been waiting a lifetime to meet you. You’re my first great-grandchild. And my only. You know what that means?”
“Extra presents?” Milo guesses.
My face turns scarlet. Toren grunts, but it sounds like a grunt of pride, and Granny throws her head back and cackles.
“That’s right! Now, come on in. And don’t let any of the adults tell you it’s a good idea to spoil the cake by licking it or sticking your fingers in it. I swear, they have a thing for cake. It’s like a beacon they have to hunt down and rush to. They think it’s an art. They started this when they were kids, and now it’s a jolly game to them. Don’t let them corrupt you, child. Just don’t.”