Mama’s Boy by Avery Flynn
Chapter Forty-Four
Dixon
The box sat there on Dixon’s kitchen island. Taunting him. Goading him. Saying, Hey, asshole. Bet you wanna know what’s inside. Too bad. So sad. It was bright red and covered in hearts. It had been dropped off by a courier an hour before Fiona had shown up. All the courier had said was that it was from Nash and that he had to sign for it. No details. No explanations. No additional information.
Nash was a giant prick.
Now that Fiona was here, they both were standing in his kitchen staring at the box like it might contain a poisonous lizard or radioactive waste. She twisted the end of her long brown ponytail as she contemplated the box. Her nose was still rosy from the cold and she had on a thick sweater, but he was starting to burn up. When had it gotten so hot in here?
When Fiona showed up, jackhole.
“It’s not ticking, is it?” she asked, her tone teasing as she leaned in closer to inspect it.
“No. I checked for that first thing.” He picked up the card that had been attached to the box and read it aloud. “Do not open until date time.”
She straightened up and looked back over her shoulder at him. “So you didn’t peek?”
“What are you saying?” As if he didn’t know.
She chuckled as she shook her head, obviously not believing his bullshit for an instant. “That you’re not exactly known for your patience.”
He took a step forward, the movement bringing him directly behind her; dropped one hand to her hip; and reached the other out so he could flip open the box top. They leaned forward together, in sync, like they’d been practicing the move for weeks. Inside was a black lockbox with a note that said Enter Code Texted.
“You haven’t gotten the code yet?”
He shook his head. “No doubt they’re having fun drawing this out.”
They straightened up but stayed close together. It wasn’t that he needed to touch her. It just sort of worked out that way. It felt natural, comfortable, as if he was supposed to.
Fiona relaxed back, fitting herself snugly against him, and let out a half chuckle, half sigh. “Wow, your cousins really know how to push your buttons.”
“We did basically grow up together every summer.” They’d had years to hone their tormenting techniques.
“And you’re all only children?”
“Just me.” He dipped his head down and inhaled the sugary vanilla scent that clung to her hair. It was weird. He knew it was weird. He did it anyway. “Griff has a younger sister, and Nash has a younger brother and sister.”
She pivoted but didn’t break their body-to-body contact so she could look up at him. “So your summers at Gable House must have taken getting used to—what with the geese and two sibling stand-ins.”
It wasn’t exactly going from Kansas to Oz different, but it was close. At home, it was all about being focused and maintaining a commitment to do whatever it took to come out on top. At Gable House, there was still that urge to win, but the stakes somehow seemed lower. Their grandma never let out a disappointed sigh when he got ninety-nine instead of one hundred. And his cousins? They always kept going at full speed, win, lose, or draw. He didn’t understand it, but it was a nice change of pace.
“It was great.” He dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. “Those were the best summers.”
Fiona was getting ready to ask another question when his phone buzzed with an incoming text. He pulled it out of his pocket.
“It’s the code,” he said
He read off the code while Fiona entered it on the keypad and then lifted the metal lid. Inside was a bag of flour, white truffle oil, parmesan cheese, a potato, beet juice, an egg, tiny packets of salt and pepper, and a heart-shaped cookie cutter. Tucked into an envelope taped to the lid of the lockbox was a website link to a prerecorded cooking class. He looked over at Fiona. Her mouth was agape.
“I’m scared,” she said, sounding as if she was only half joking. “Are you sure you don’t want to just order?”
He glanced down at the ingredients, visions of his sugar cookie baking attempts coming at him so strong, he would have sworn he could smell burning baked goods. She wasn’t wrong. They could just order. But then the box would win. The box couldn’t win.
“Are you implying I can’t conquer a simple”—he read the recipe card—“heart-shaped parmesan and truffle potato ravioli?”
Her gaze dropped to the lockbox. “Is that what it is? Where’s the pasta? Why is there just this wheat flour?” Her eyes huge with fear, she looked up at him. “Are we making the ravioli from scratch?”
“You can do that?” Sure, he knew it was possible. By chefs. By him? That was a whole other question. Still, he knew it wasn’t an accident that it was cooking-related. His mom had told Nash all about the cookies, which gave his cousin a prime opportunity to set him up. The rat bastard. Dixon would definitely be getting his revenge for this. “This box—and my cousins—are not gonna beat us.”
“Our odds are not good,” Fiona said with a sigh.
He dropped a kiss on the top of her head—he couldn’t seem to help it. Something about having Fiona in his house just seemed right. “Never tell me the odds.”
