Miss Behave (The Anderson Family Series Book 1)

by Traci Highland

  We follow her into in the doorway of the kitchen. She tosses aprons from a chair to me and to Hunter.

  “Is she serious?” Hunter mutters, holding the apron and staring at it, aghast. Or at least he looks to be aghast, with his strong jaw turned into a scowl. He’s holding the apron with his fingertips. You’d think the thing was radioactive.

  I grab the apron from his fingers and wrap it around his waist, my fingers grazing the hard muscles beneath his shirt.

  "I really have to wear this thing?" His nose wrinkles. Which for the record only makes him look cuter in his little blue apron with crisp white daisies and yellow trim.

  I should take a picture and send it to his mom, see if it’s possible for her to hate me even more.

  “Yes,” I pull the strings tight around his waist and tie.

  The kitchen, in the back of the house, is an addition. It was built in 1910, but manages to be pretty swank after a recent overhaul, with its gas-powered, six-burner stove, a stainless steel refrigerator and double ovens, even if the floor is crooked.

  "Everyone wears an apron and washes their hands." The sequined heart sewn onto Aunt Elise’s back pocket barely moves as she stirs a large pot of homemade barbecue sauce. Man, it smells good in here. Like a mixture of barbecue and cookies and home and everything good.

  Hunter grimaces and follows me to the sink. He stares at the bags of flour and jars of spices and mixing bowls strewn about the butcher-block countertops like they’re autopsy tools.

  Please don’t let him have a masculine freak out on me.

  I brought a guy to Aunt Elise’s pig roast once. Once. I swore I’d never do it again and here I am bringing some guy I’m not even dating.

  The whole apron thing sent the last one running for the hills, or maybe it was the fact that he was expected to cook, I'll never know, but it was the end of our week-long relationship.

  I run the water and say, "Aunt Elise mothers just about the entire family. My mom’s oldest sister, Susan, moved to the Midwest after she married my uncle Billy. She had ten children, and then six months after having the tenth she died of heart failure. Aunt Elise decided that she wasn't going to let Susan's kids fall off the family map. So even though they lived in like Iowa or Indiana or Ohio or someplace, mom and Aunt Elise rented a bus every year for them to come out and spend a week with us in the summer. And so the tradition of the pig roast started, and it also gave Uncle Billy at least one week per year to himself."

  "I can't imagine. I think I have some cousins in California someplace, but my dad could barely take a weekend with me, much less bring out more kids to stay for a visit." His eyes darken and as he turns off the water I push a clean dishrag into his hands.

  Aunt Elise, her face pointed and determined and sweet, hollers at some kids out back and then assigns us to cookie duty on the center island. I gather up the butter and the bags of chocolate and walnuts and Hunter stands next to the counter, tall, with perfect posture, looking completely lost in his adorable little apron. "I hope those arms of yours are strong, because there aren’t any electric mixers."

  Aunt Elise, ears like a fox, responds from where she's now standing over a sink full of pots surrounded by a bevy of nameless children who all look somewhat familiar. "Mixers are for the weak."

  Hunter stands, mouth ajar, at the counter, staring at the ingredients laid out before him.

  I open the jar of sugar and dole enough for approximately three million cookies and put it together with more sticks of butter than should be legal in the lower forty-eight, and place both in a bowl before him.

  "Mix.” I hand him the spoon.

  He looks at the wooden spoon in his hand like it’s a drumstick. "Don't I need to add some sort of liquid?"

  I have to ask as I measure out the flours, "Do you cook?"

  "That depends on what your definition of ‘cook’ is. I've boiled water for pasta, and I have mad skills at microwaving."

  “Who cooks in your house, then? Do you put it all on your girlfriend?”

  He looks down at the table. “No, she belongs to the same school as my parents.”

  “Which is?”

  “Well, she doesn’t believe that the second you walk in a door you should be strapped to the kitchen for hours cooking.” He sends a heated, not entirely pleasant look my way. “In New York it was take-out. Here, I order meals from Sweet Pea and pick them up once a week. Re-heat and serve. Takes ten minutes and requires absolutely no aprons.”

  He stares at the bowl of sugar and butter and his face darkens, looking so very alone in the middle of Aunt Elise’s incredibly hectic kitchen. My hand reaches out to touch his shoulder, my fingers skimming the cloth before I pull it back.

  "Well, Mr.-Mad-Skills-at-Microwaving, you are about to get your learn on. You mix the butter together with the sugar and so it looks all creamy and fluffy.” I bump my hip into his. “It might take a lot of elbow grease, but I think you have it in you."

  “I will do my best, Sensei." He winks and my heart leaps.

  "Okay then," I look down at the counter.

  He’s a neat freak. He stops to wash his hands every time his sleeves sneak their way down his masculine forearms and get too close to the butter. So, of course, I make it my mission of the day to dirty him up a bit.

  Mom walks over, and I hit the bowl as I turn to face her, causing flour to poof up and coat him.

  He grimaces and I laugh.

  Before saying hello, mom blurts out, “Piper, I am taking you out for coffee Monday.”

  “Okay.” What on earth is that about? Mom never takes me anywhere.

  “We’ll chat about my friend in Chicago.”

  Oh, that. Perfect. I hug her.

  “Quarter to five sound good?” She asks.

  “It’s great. Come grab me at work.”

  Mom’s face relaxes, and then, like magic, as her eyes expand when she notices the super-hot-wow man I brought to the party. “This is Hunter, mom. My, um, friend.”

  She gives him the once-over.

  Then she gives him a second-over.

  And a third.

  My cheeks warm.

  “Maybe we should postpone that trip to Samoa,” she says.

  “Not a chance, Annie.” Elise says without even turning.

  “You’re going to Samoa?” I ask, confused.

  But she’s ignoring me and reaching for Hunter’s hand, he’s giving her that trademarked, stupid-cute grin.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Hunter shakes her hand and mom stands there.

  Agape.

  Seriously, her mouth is wide open, like she’s never seen a guy before. She touches the ends of her now-auburn hair cut into the smart bob uncomfortably, like she hasn't quite gotten used to it yet. She’s weird.

  My mother is something of a looker, I guess. She has a curvy frame and wide eyes and a voice that makes you feel safe but not entirely comfortable, either. My father couldn’t take it, I guess.

  My stepfather, Ted, wasn't about to let the opportunity to get to know mom pass him by, however. So, as one of the professors in the University department where mom worked as a secretary, he became her shoulder to cry on as she went through her divorce. And then finally, many moons later, Ted worked up the nerve to ask her out, and the rest, as they say, is history.

  My stepfather isn't the kind of guy anyone would envision with someone like my mom. When we were little, we used to joke that he looked more like Bill Nye the Science Guy then Prince Charming. But in a way it helped us to learn that sometimes Prince Charming really is Bill Nye the Science Guy.

  I sigh. “Where’s Ted?”

  “Ted? Oh, yes, right. Ted’s outside, by the pig. Pigs draw men like flies.”

  Hunter flinches and I load up the last tray with cookie dough. “Hunter, do we have a lot of dough left in the bowl?”

  “Um, not so much.” He holds up the wooden spoon, laden with a small glob of dough. There’s no room left on the tray. I grab his hand with mine and move the spoon
to my mouth so I can suck off the dough and his breath catches. Our eyes meet and the look of pure, unbridled lust in his gaze makes me weak. I lick my lips and he looks down, gripping the counter with both hands.

  Okay, what was that?

  “He cooks?” Mom smiles and heat rushes to my neck. Stupid girl, stupid mom, stupid taken, sexy boss.

  She holds up her arms to Hunter and grips him in her bear paws and pulls him down for a hug, "Call me mom."

  Hunter stiffens at her hug. Like he’s never been hugged before.

  "He’s from Connecticut, mom. Watch the hugs, I don’t think he likes his clothes to be wrinkled." She hugs him tighter, like she’s trying to squeeze the neat-freakedness right out of him. I don't know if I can spare Hunter having to get hugged by every cousin or uncle or auntie. Or even by the relatives that I’m somewhat questionably related to.

  Because that's how my family rolls. Even when family relationships can be strained, we’re huggers.

  Hunter glances at me, hurt in his eyes. What?

  He wraps his arm around my mother and stares into her adoring eyes, "You know, Mom, I’ve never been to a pig roast before. How does this thing work?"

  Mom tucks Hunter’s arm inside her own and leads him outside in a flurry of frenzied, pig-roasting explanations and I’m left alone in a kitchen full of people, scrubbing cookie dough off the counter, flour in my hair, wondering what I’m even doing.

  He shouldn’t be here. He’s not really a part of my life. Well, not a part of my life that ranks pig-roast status.

  It’s the apron.

  Men wearing aprons must throw me off my game.

  Watching Hunter through the open kitchen door as he walks arm in arm with Mom over to a table laden with casseroles and surrounded by a gaggle of gawking cousins and aunties, I sigh. He’s tall and sleek and dark and graceful in his designer jeans, making him look like a panther in the middle of a Care Bear convention.

  I take a step forward to follow, when I feel a pair of hands wrap around my waist and I'm suddenly lifted from the ground. "Piper!"

  Mags. She twirls me around like I weigh as much as a piece of paper and I laugh out loud. Mags is one of the twins. Mags and my sister Betty are fraternal twins, meaning that Betty it is a knockout in every conceivable way, with her black curls and porcelain complexion and Jessica Rabbit-like body. Mags has always been a bit chunky and her hair not quite as curly and thick, but between her face and her kind smile I think she’s gorgeous.

  She says, “Mom didn't tell me you were going to be here. I was hoping, but I wasn't sure.”

  “I wasn’t so sure, either. I’ve been putting together a portfolio for the Chicago Sentinel, and between that and my day job, things have been a bit hectic.”

  When I was in college and Mags still lived in Boston, it was her apartment that I would drag all of my friends to for a wild weekend in the city. Even if she couldn't be there to entertain us, she would always stock up on the essentials, like lots and lots of potato chips and cheesy movies and Charliecards for the T.

  She eyes Hunter, clutching a plate that Mom loads up with various casseroles and bits of pork. "Who’s the guy?"

  "No one. Well, no, not no one like no one, he’s my boss. Though he is fun to look at, I guess." I shrug, hoping that the warmth in my cheeks isn’t visible to my sister, who is typically a little too good at reading facial expressions.

  "Well, given the color of your cheeks and the fact that you can’t rip your eyes off of him, I’d say that he definitely ranks as someone.”

  “He’s dating someone else.”

  “Ah, then he should rank as no one. What is he doing here with you and not home with his girlfriend?”

  “I don’t know. He’s lonely, maybe. Or maybe I’m lonely. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Hmmpf. Come on, I think the Arizona cousins are planning a game of knockout soccer."

  "We have Arizona cousins?" I ask.

  "Doubtful. There are a bunch of dudes in the back yard, they want to play knockout soccer, so I’m pretty sure that qualifies them as some kind of cousin."

  "Fair enough." I say, "But first can I ask you something?”

  She pulls an abandoned metal spoon from the counter and scrapes some remnants of cookie dough out of the bowl. “Shoot.”

  “Can you come and visit Dad?” I ask, hoping that no one else hears.

  “Hard to visit someone when you don’t know where the hell they are, isn’t it?”

  “He’s at my house. Stopped by last week and I guess will be staying a while.” I look out the back of the kitchen window at Ted standing by the roasting pit, feeling not unlike something of a traitor.

  “Did he tell you he was coming?” She asks, her words somewhat garbled by the spoon, but her voice is low.

  “No, I came home one night and just sort of found him on my doorstep.”

  “What the hell kind of father does that? Seriously. How long has it been since he’s called you and then he just shows up and expects you to provide for him?”

  “It’s not like that-“

  “What is it like, then? You can only pull that prodigal father crap once. And he’s played that card with you too many times-“

  “Three.”

  “Three too many! God, he pisses me off-“

  “Then tell him that. Tell him anything, just talk to him, life is too short to hold grudges.”

  “Did you swipe that from a Hallmark card?” She waves the spoon in my face and I take a step back.

  I hold out my hands to her. “Just please.”

  “Why isn’t he here? If he wants to re-open a dialogue, why didn’t he come? He knew at least a few of us lesser sisters would be here, so-“

  “Lesser what?” I gasp, heart grinding to a halt before hiccupping back into an uneven, ugly rhythm.

  Mags looks at her feet. “Nothing.”

  “Did you say lesser sisters? Is that what you think? Oh wow, am I the cause of whatever the issue is between-“ My voice chokes off into a runny mess of babble.

  Two hands land on my shoulders, “No, no, God, I shouldn’t have said anything. Talking about Dad just gets me all pissed off, you’ve done nothing to come between me and any of us and Dad. The only one responsible for the rift is him. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

  But I have. Guilt sits in my subconscious like a rock I just can’t smash.

  “C’mon, Piper. Let’s go save your boss."

  Hunter sits, king-like, in the middle of a bevy of clucking aunties. He gallantly tastes each and every one of what looks to be thirty piles of food on his plate, smiling as he compliments the cook with every bite.

  “Or not.” Mags grunts, "He looks like he's being well cared for."

  “Nah, I’m going to grab him.” I swipe my eyes with the back of my sleeve and pull off the apron.

  Mags grabs my arms, “Leave it. Don’t get involved with your boss. Please. You know better.”

  Like I need reminding. “I’m not-“

  “You should get your butt on a plane and go out to Chicago and never look back. Don’t throw your dreams away on a nice piece of ass.”

  “It’s not like that. Trust me, I wouldn’t get involved with him even if he wasn’t my boss. Well, and was actually single. I like the low-key, hippie guys, remember?”

  “Not for longer than a few nights.”

  “You’re over-reacting. I’m going to go get my friend and we’ll meet you on the field, ok?”

  “Hmmpf.”

  I wave hello to the rumored Arizona cousins and make my way over to Hunter.

  Grabbing two of our cookies that some auntie just brought to the table hot from the oven, I sit on the bench beside Hunter, handing him the warm, gooey goodness of the fruits of our labor. "So, how are you holding up, boss?"

  “I've eaten twice my body weight in pork and pasta salad.” He takes a bite of the cookie. “Oh my God. These are good.”

  "If my family likes you, they feed you. A lot."

  "So you think t
hey like me?"

  "Do you feel like you need to get all roman and use a vomitorium yet?” I shove half a cookie in my mouth and savor the hot chocolate as it coats my tongue. “That’s the scale I usually use. “

  “Close. One more of these cookies and it might get to that point. Your family is a lot different from mine, you know that?” His cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink.

  “Your mom doesn’t roast pigs in her back yard?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about goats? Roast them in the middle of a big thing drawn on the ground, looks kind of like a star-“

  “Not that I’ve seen.”

  “Huh.” I steal a piece of pork off of his plate and lick my fingers.

  He grabs a rib and focuses on it. “My mother would never tell anyone to call her mom. Sometimes she acts surprised when I do it.”

  He puts the rib down without touching it, his eyes focused somewhere off on the horizon.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. The last rays of sunshine filter through the oaks, casting an orange haze over the purple shadows at our feet. A popping noise and some excited shouts are followed by a low electric hum and thousands of fairy lights strung from poles and trees and tables sing to life.

  “It’s not your fault. Not her fault, either, really. My father gave her anything she could ever want, except for what she really needed.” He shrugs. “Can’t put affection on a credit card, I guess.”

  I pull the plate of cookies over in front of us and we both dig in. “You may be new at the whole cooking thing, but you sure did knock it out of the park with these bad boys, man,” I shove the crunchy but soft and warm in the middle piece of chocolate and walnut heaven into my mouth.

  “I had a good teacher.” He smiles and breaks his cookie into small, neat little bits.

  Mags calls, “Hey losers! Gonna play some ball or just grow fat over there?”

  “It’s best not to cross her.” We both get up from the table. He has a piece of chocolate on the side of his mouth. I stand on my tiptoes to wipe it off. My breath hitches when he closes his eyes, and then he catches my hand and licks the chocolate off my thumb. I can't think, my legs go oh wow so delicious and-