Darling - K. Ancrum Page 0,31

Prentis, who said, “I would know more about it, but Peter won’t let them come by the house, so we’ve never met. Slightly has met them, though, and he says they’re nice, but—”

“Prentis, stop talking,” Peter said loudly, having finally noticed their separate conversation.

Prentis shut his mouth immediately and turned away from Wendy.

“Anyway,” Peter continued, “the Crocodile is also out tonight, which should be more incentive for some of you to stay inside. It’s close to payday, and as you know, he is always a bit techy around then. Does anyone have any more questions?”

Wendy started to raise her hand, but Tinkerbelle pushed it back down.

“The Crocodile is a bounty hunter that Peter pays for protection,” she said, answering Wendy’s unspoken question brusquely and quietly. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Tootles raised his hand, hopping up and down in his seat.

“Tootles?”

“I finished all my soup, and I didn’t spill anything. Tinkerbelle said that if I was good, Darling would tell me a poem,” Tootles said proudly.

Peter locked eyes with Wendy from across the long table. “Oh?” he said.

“Yes,” Tootles said. “I was waiting for the bathroom, and Darling—”

Tinkerbelle interrupted Tootles loudly. “Darling was taking too long and Tootles was upset, so we promised him a treat if he went to the bathroom and got to the table on time.”

She squeezed Wendy’s knee hard under the table as Wendy tried not to have a panic attack.

“I see.” Peter’s eyes were bright and intelligent as he looked between Wendy and Tinkerbelle. “Well, we should really be leaving, but I think we have room for a treat. Come on, Darling, share some of your poetry with me and the boys.”

Wendy looked desperately at Tinkerbelle, whose frantic grip was beginning to pinch. Then she looked back at Peter, who was staring at her wolfishly, and wondered how on earth she had thought a person like this was vulnerable when he was in her home. She couldn’t even remember what he looked like crying, even though that had happened less than two hours ago.

The entire table was staring at her now, and from the feel of Tinkerbelle’s hand, she was running out of time. “Um.” Wendy was stalling. “Are you sure you all want to hear it? It’s not very good. I could just—”

“Yes,” Peter said firmly.

Wendy wracked her brain for something to say. Her mouth felt unbearably dry even though she had just finished eating.

“Give us a poem about anything,” Peter said challengingly. “Your favorite flower, your favorite food. One of your dreams. Come on, Darling.”

“Come on, Darling!” Tootles echoed excitedly, completely oblivious to the mounting tension at the table.

Wendy closed her eyes and, by the grace of God, snatched on a memory of something her mom had sung to her as a kid. Hopefully it was good enough.

“I wish I had a pretty house,

The littlest ever seen,

With funny little red walls

And roof of mossy green.”

Tinkerbelle loosened her death grip on Wendy’s knee and looked so relieved that she seemed like she was about to faint.

“Next I guess, I think I’ll have

Gay windows all about,

With roses peeping in, you know,

And babies peeping out.”

None of the older boys looked particularly impressed with this poem, but Tootles seemed enchanted. Wendy paused and looked at Prentis, who seemed just as relieved as Tinkerbelle that Wendy had come up with something.

“One more line,” Peter said quietly. He stared at her unblinkingly from across the table, his hands steepled in front of his mouth. “For Tootles.”

“Um…” Wendy wracked her brain desperately.

“I’ll have a chimney big and tall

With black smoke at the top

To share the warm hearth with you all

And … I would like to stop.”

Peter burst into laughter at her last line, tossing his head back winningly—reminding Wendy, with startling clarity, just how distractingly beautiful he was when he smiled. When Peter finished laughing, he looked at her differently: cheeks gently flushed and golden eyes hazy. Closer to the way he’d looked at her when he was inside her house. “Darling, you really are something else, aren’t you?” he said, his voice rough and warm. Familiar.

Tinkerbelle reached under the table and squeezed Wendy’s hand tenderly. This had clearly been some sort of test, Wendy realized, and she had just barely passed.

The cool tension had lifted from the table, and Curly stood and began picking up everyone’s plates to bring them to the sink.

“Grab your stuff. We’re heading out,” Peter announced. “Those football meatheads are downstairs, and I don’t like to keep them waiting. Curly, change out of those pants and