There was a reason she preferred cotton. There was also a reason she loved her brothers’ T-shirts. And mine, lately. She was a known thief of our boxer shorts too. They made perfect pajama shorts for her, she claimed.
It was one area in which she was identical to Willow, and once they found something in a store they liked, they bought it all. Three years ago, Willow had found a pair of loose cargo pants with side pockets that she really liked, and so she’d bought approximately ten pairs.
Today, Pipsqueak came over to my house right after her shopping spree with Angel, and her sheepish grin was more telling than her excited rambling about this cute summer dress she’d found. Because it meant she’d bought more than one.
“How many?” I asked with a knowing smirk.
She flushed and laughed. “Um, maybe three in every color?”
I chuckled and set aside the steaks I’d just marinated. “How many colors?”
She mumbled “Four” under her breath.
She was too fucking adorable.
“That must be one special dress,” I mused.
“It really is! And it was only nine dollars. I think it’s supposed to be a beach dress, but if you add leggings, you can totally wear it wherever you want. Look.” She dug through her bags and held up an army-green version of the dress.
Was that a dress? It looked exactly like a regular tank, with the exception that it was a little longer, and it had drawstrings below the chest.
“Looks like you could’ve just borrowed one of my beaters and tied a belt around it.”
She offered a flat expression in return. “Does not. It’s freaking flawless.”
I was glad she thought so, because she now had twelve of them.
She sighed heavily. “I can see you’re not convinced, but just wait. I’ll put it on—” She cocked her head and glanced out of the kitchen. “Where’s Grace?”
“Your mother just picked her up,” I chuckled. “She also hinted, not discreetly at all, that we might as well refer to her as Nana.”
“Ha! I was waiting for that,” she laughed. “She told me since she’s too old to adopt more children, she’s just going to adopt grandchildren.”
I certainly didn’t mind.
While Pipsqueak went to change into one of her twelve new dresses—and, evidently, to put on music in the living room—I started chopping baby potatoes into halves. Pipsqueak had given me a fryer for my birthday this year, and it was possible I used it for all kinds of shit. Fries, wedges, chicken, zucchini, cheese, et cetera. It was a gadget I hadn’t known I needed.
Barely any prep was required. Nor any skills.
Bobbing my head to the music, I dumped the potatoes into a large bowl, presumably one Pipsqueak had brought over. At this point, all my cupboards were full of things I hadn’t bought. She’d taken over, and I kinda loved it. Once in a blue moon when I wanted to try something new, or something that required a tool I didn’t have, I could just text her. She’d tell me in which drawer or cupboard I’d find it. For instance, when I’d started making baby food for Grace. Apparently, we had a hand mixer in the house.
I didn’t know why she’d need a hand mixer for making chocolate treats, but by all means. I wasn’t going to question her.
“Ta-da!” Pipsqueak appeared in the doorway and extended her arms with a dramatic flair. “Isn’t it cute?”
Cute? No.
I was, however, sure she’d just turned tanks into an indecent creation. Fucking hell. My jaw ticked with tension. The drawstring right below her breasts was the worst touch.
“It’s so fucking comfy,” she said, trailing barefoot into the kitchen. Those slender legs were going to be the death of me. Hell, her entire body was perfection, and the so-called dress did nothing to hide it. It was way too short, the fabric hanging loosely off the curve of her sweet ass. “I’m gonna wear it for the rest of the summer.”
Well, that wasn’t good.
“I guess it looks comfortable,” I managed to say.
She was not wearing a bra. Fucking nipples again.
Twenty-One
It didn’t come as a surprise when Darius took off shortly after dinner. We shook hands, and I told him to be safe in case I didn’t see him before he left for his next work trip. Pipsqueak was going to meet up with him tomorrow for a day at the shooting range, and if anybody needed to blow off some steam, it was him.
That left four. While Ryan and I cleared the table and changed the music to good ol’-fashioned rock, Elise and Angel prepared snacks and drinks. I asked Ry what their plans were for the rest of their stay as we took our seats on the patio again.
“I reckon we’ll go over to the shooting range too,” he said, threading his fingers across his stomach. “Can’t get lazy just ’cause I’m not in the service anymore—and Angel’s never been. Girl’s a fuckin’ disaster.”