Controlled Burn (Blackbridge Security 8)

I haven’t been miserable this week staying with Finnegan. If I can keep my head in the right place, understanding that the man is just really nice-looking eye candy, then I’m fine. The kids have everything they need, although they could use a little more space. We’re safe and have a roof over our heads.

But Ezra deserting us still makes me feel betrayed, and I’m no closer to speaking to him than I was days ago when I found the movers in his condo, dragging furniture out.

I imagine he’s calling because the condo owner refused to give him his deposit back, but I didn’t have enough time to fix the dented sheetrock in the living room or repaint the closet doors that Knox drew masterpieces on.

The kids play for another hour before starting to whine about being hungry, and I stand from the soft grassy, shaded area I’ve been sitting in this morning.

“We’ll get some groceries.”

“McDonald’s!” Knox squeals.

“Groceries,” I argue. “We’re saving money for a house, remember?”

“Chicken nuggets are gooder than a house,” Knox mumbles as we walk to the car.

“Better,” I correct. “Chicken nuggets are better than a house.”

He smiles wide, and I realize my mistake. “I was correcting your grammar, not agreeing.”

His face falls.

“We can get frozen chicken nuggets at the grocery store.”

He perks up a little at this, but the wide smile isn’t there any longer.

“That man can afford McDonald’s,” Kason says once we’re in the car and driving toward the store.

“Then he can have McDonald’s.”

“He can buy us McDonald’s.”

“No,” I tell him. “That’s not his responsibility. I’ll buy your food.”

Kason sours once more, and I can tell he likes Finnegan even less with my declaration.

The child is part of the instant gratification generation, and I can’t really fault him for that. Modern technology has changed all of us, but him picking and choosing how he’s going to allow Finnegan to be in our lives is ridiculous. I refuse to get him fast food just to make him like the guy a little more.

“I’m going to need your help today,” I tell them as we climb out of the car. “I want to get in and get out.”

“I’ll help!” Knox declares, jumping up and down with excitement. The child loves to help wherever he can, but I busy myself with grabbing a cart rather than reminding him that picking up after himself is the biggest help of all.

“I’m going to need you to keep an accurate count on the number of items in the cart,” I say as I lift him and settle him in the seat in the front. “You two are going to run and get things. I’m in desperate need of a nap.”

Both Kason and Kayleigh scrunch their noses at the word nap, but they should have thought of that before staying up all night and getting up with the sun.

“Let’s count,” Knox says excitedly, bouncing up and down in the seat. Getting him down for a nap is going to be the most difficult.

“Kason and Kayleigh, we need two boxes of mac and cheese.”

They nod before darting away to get the items.

“Two!” Knox says, holding up two little fingers.

“Count them once they’re in the cart,” I remind him.

I’m heading for the dairy section, knowing we need milk, when the twins return. I nod when each place two blue boxes in the cart. I learned long ago that I had to half my request because they were each going to bring the count I gave them.

“Two!”

“Four,” I tell Knox, pointing to the boxes in the cart.

His brows draw tight before nodding in understanding.

“Next,” Kason says, sounding like he’s just as ready to leave as I am.

“Two cans of raviolis.”

They dart away again. I grab the milk and sliced cheese, trying to remember what else we need. We were in desperate need of a grocery trip before we left Ezra’s apartment, and I just haven’t thought about it since. I know we’re just about out of everything, but at the same time, I can’t take up all the space in Finnegan’s cabinets either.

I’m heading toward the frozen food section, knowing I can’t forget nuggets when I realize the twins haven’t come back with the raviolis yet. I turn back around and head for the canned goods section, praying my kids aren’t having a knock-down drag-out fight in the middle of the grocery store.

Neither child is in that aisle, and I move to the next aisle, seeing Kason dart across the other end.

I whistle like I always do to get his attention, but he doesn’t hear me. I try to catch him on the next aisle, but the child is running. I’m not going to yell because the store is too crowded for that, so I move a little quicker.

“Momma!” Kason yells, coming up right behind me.