Untouchable (Untouchables, 1)

“Wow. Big age gap,” I remark. Leaning across the counter so I’m closer to her, I ask, “How old are you, cutie pie?”

“I’m five,” she announces with pride, holding up five fingers to show me.

I pick up her mermaid and walk her along the edge of the counter. “What’s her name? Did you pick one yet?”

“Not yet. What do you think I should name her?” she inquires, eyeing up the pink-haired mermaid.

“What about Ariel?” I suggest.

Wrinkling up her nose adorably, she shakes her head. “No, she doesn’t have red hair.”

Dramatically smacking my palm against my forehead, I tell her, “You’re right, what was I thinking? You’ll have to pick a name for her. I bet you’re better at it than I am.”

She eyes up the mermaid for two seconds, then brightens. “What about Seashell?”

“That’s a great name for a mermaid. You must be so smart to think of such a good name. What’s your name?”

“Chloe,” she answers.

Carter must be tired of sharing the spotlight, because he hip bumps her out of the way. “All right, move it, squirt. I need to pay for your stuff.”

She turns and makes her merry way to a display of coloring books set up near the register. She grabs one, sits down on the floor, and starts flipping through it.

“Your little sister is adorable,” I inform him.

“She knows it, too,” he tells me, pulling out his wallet.

I shake my head, grabbing my scan gun and ringing up his items. “Bringing a cute kid in was pretty low. I can’t be mean to you in front of your baby sister.”

“I mean, you could be,” he reasons. “But yeah, I kinda figured you wouldn’t. You’re a sweetheart underneath it all, aren’t you, princess?”

Sliding an unamused look his way, I remind him, “I told you not to call me that.”

“And I told you to say please,” he returns easily.

Flicking a glance at his sister to make sure she’s still out of earshot, I murmur, “That only works when you have me half-naked and a little afraid.”

“And you wonder why I like having you half-naked and a little afraid,” he shoots back.

Depraved. Carter Mahoney is absolutely depraved.

I ignore his attempt to revisit that day and place his items into a bag. “Your total is $12.72.”

His dark eyebrows rise. “Damn, really? This place is cheap.”

“Correct. That’s sort of the appeal,” I tell him.

Glancing at the impulse buy Dr. Seuss pencils and the rack of assorted gift cards on the counter, he asks, “You like to read?”

“I do.”

“What do you like to read?” he asks.

Sighing heavily, I glance behind him. I’m looking for an excuse to kick him out, but there are no waiting customers, so I don’t really have a viable reason I could get by my manager.

As if he understands my mission, he grabs a Cat in the Hat pencil and puts it down on the counter. “Here, I’m buying this too. I’m not done shopping yet. This might take a while.”

“Uh huh. You can’t just stand here and harass me, you know? This is my place of work. I can tell my manager and he’ll make you leave.”

I’m bluffing. My manager is easily overwrought and would probably be too afraid of a lost sale, but Carter doesn’t know that.

“You can tell your manager that I’m thinking too hard about my Cat in the Hat pencil purchase and get me kicked out?” he questions. “Wow, you’re a real hardass.”

I roll my eyes, but scan his pencil and drop it in the bag. “Anything else today, sir?” I ask with mocking sweetness.

“You can call me that again,” he tells me, suggestive amusement flickering in his dark eyes.

“If there’s nothing else, your total—”

“I’m not done,” he insists, fingering the stacks of plastic gift cards. “In your professional opinion, if I wanted to buy a gift card, which design is best?”

“Literally any of them,” I reply dryly, since he’s just wasting my time. “They all serve the same purpose.”

“I expect more guidance from a professional such as yourself,” he states, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

I look over at his sister again, since he is clearly a terrible babysitter. She hasn’t moved from her spot on the floor. She appears to be tempted to rip the crayons out of the front of the book and start coloring, though. Clearly she has more self-control than her brother, because she hasn’t done it yet.

“How old is your other sister?” I ask him.

“My other sister? What makes you think I have two?”

“Well, you told my mom your sister is married and owns a restaurant in Dallas. Assumin’ the tiny one over there isn’t a major overachiever, you must have at least one more.”

Fingering through a row of gift cards, he says, “I do. She’s twenty seven. Why do you ask?”

“I’m just wildly confused about how your parents decide to have kids. Did they have her young or something?”