Spying Under the Mistletoe (Love Undercover #2) - Stina Lindenblatt Page 0,42
that I would participate in the sport. And that led to my little sister, Evie, playing it. Her theory was, if the sport was good enough for me, then it was good enough for her, too.”
Chloe’s eyes shine and she grins. “Was she good?”
“Definitely. She was as competitive as I was and put a lot of talented guys to shame when it came to skill.” I chuckle at the memory of just how many guys she put to shame that were foolish enough to challenge her.
“What are your parents like?”
“They’re great. My mom was a pediatric nurse. Now she spends her time refurbishing discarded furniture and selling it. Dad recently retired from his job and helps her. The two of them have created quite the little business.” That keeps them both happy and busy.
But not too busy for Mom to ask from time to time about my (non-existent) girlfriends.
“What about your family?”
A cloud briefly crosses Chloe’s face. She picks up a knife and starts chopping the parsley on the cutting board. “There isn’t much I can say about them. As you know, none of them are in my life anymore.” She chews on her lip for a second, as if contemplating whether to tell me something, but then releases it and shrugs. “But before that, my mom and I were close. She’s an amazing woman. She always manages to find the bright side in everything.”
Chloe grins, and it feels as though a cloud has drifted from the sun and the world is suddenly brighter. “I remember one time when I was eight years old, and I’d painted a vase for her birthday. It was bright and had lots of yellows and reds and oranges. Her favorite colors. I was so excited to give it to her, but I accidentally dropped it and it broke. Mom glued it together, but a piece was missing. It was impossible to use as a vase.
“Mom told me that it didn’t matter because she had an even better use for it. She turned it into a plant pot. The hole worked great for drainage. The last time I saw her, she still had that vase with a plant growing in it.”
Chloe’s eyes grow shinier, but this time for a different reason. It’s clear she misses her mom, but unlike me—who can easily hop on a plane and visit mine or any of my family—Chloe doesn’t have the same luxury.
And for the thousandth time since I first learned about the Orlov family, I mentally curse Vadik and his criminal activities.
An itch to pull her into my arms bites me on the ass.
But before I have a chance to satisfy the urge, Chloe blinks away the tears and checks the contents of the saucepan. “So, how’s the couch working for you? I really feel bad taking your bed.” She dumps the parsley into the pot.
“Don’t be.”
“I can sleep on the couch. I fit it better.”
“Yes, but you’re the guest.”
She returns the lid to the saucepan. “More like your fake girlfriend who’s here for protection from the bad guys. That’s hardly a guest.”
“It’s really okay.”
“How about we alternate nights? You get your bed tonight, and I get the couch.” She has that tone I recognized from Isabelle. It’s her don’t-even-bother-trying-to-argue tone.
I ignored it. “Look, tell you what, once I grow tired of sleeping on the couch, I’ll let you know.”
She opens her mouth.
“I’ve made my decision,” I say before she can object.
“God, are you always this stubborn?”
“I like getting my own way.”
“I can see that.” She looks over at the living room, and a small frown furrows her brow. “Where’s Whiskey?”
I follow her gaze and quickly scan the area. “Good question.” A scowl takes up residence in my tone.
We both search the living room.
It doesn’t take long to find him; you just need to follow the trail of stuffing spewed across the hardwood floor.
He and what was once a couch cushion are having a wrestling match in the foyer, and the cushion isn’t coming out the winner.
“No, Whiskey,” I say in a firm tone.
He ignores me, attempting to get his teeth into cushion again. He chomps onto the corner and drags it backward, almost colliding with the side table.
“Whiskey, drop.”
Again, he ignores me, and I grunt.
Chloe laughs softly next to me. I scowl at her, which makes her laugh harder.
She bites her lower lip, holding in her laugh. “Sorry,” she whispers, attempting to arrange her face in a serious expression but failing spectacularly.