Love Trumps Game Read Free Page A

Short. “I’m the one that shoulda never had kids,” she mumbled as she picked up her chilled lemonade and took a sip. She glanced over at her grandchildren, who hadn’t said another peep the entire time. They were standing like stiff, brown trees next to her loveseat.
    As much as she hated to admit it, Brandon carried that same handsome hardness of his father. A head full of curly, black hair; piercing dark eyes; the same strong jaw line. Raynita, on the other hand, was the spitting image of Neema Jean with her honey-hued complexion, thin lips, and large brown eyes. A smile could bring the deepest dimples to her plump cheeks. Poor things.
    â€œNita, why you over there looking so sad?” It was cute, the way Neema kept the child’s hair in neat cornrows with colorful beads dangling from the ends. Their shoes and outfits looked expensive, making them well-dressed kids for a mother that didn’t have a job to speak of. “You two look hot and hungry. How ’bout some cold milk and some of Nanny’s homemade cookies?”
    Raynita’s eyes lit up. “Nanny, you have chocolate chip? They’re my favorite.”
    â€œI don’t want no damn chocolate chips,” Brandon said with a scrunched-up face. “Peanut butter cookies taste better.”
    â€œBoy, you watch your mouth before you get a bar of soap in it. You start that cussing in my house and the next thing you’ll be getting is a leather strap on your behind!”
    â€œHell, I didn’t want no stupid cookies anyway.” Brandon stuck his small chest out. “I hate chocolate chips.”
    â€œHey! I said, watch your mouth.” Good grief. Hattie got up and headed to her refrigerator for some cold milk. Raynita and Brandon followed behind her like puppies. She fetched her cookie jar down from the shelf. “I don’t have chocolate chip cookies, but I have oatmeal raisin with walnuts.”
    Both kids took a seat at her table. The day before she’d baked two dozen cookies, knowing her grandkids would be back over soon enough. “You’ve tried the rest, now try Nanny’s best.”
    She ignored Brandon’s tight lip at the mention of a leather strap. The child didn’t know it, but her words were mostly idle threats. The only time she had felt justified to take a belt to one of them was the day she had found Brandon hiding in one of her closets playing with matches. The little fool had almost set her house on fire.
    â€œWhat about you, Brandon? You sure you don’t want some cookies?” Hattie took pride in her baking and often contributed her baked goods to various church functions.
    The boy put his head down.
    â€œSuit yourself then.”
    No matter how much she tried to instill good morals into her grandchildren, the more it seemed like a losing battle. For a seven-year-old, Brandon knew more curse words than she did, and didn’t mind using them. Raynita, on the other hand, was plagued with sticky fingers. More times than she could recount, the girl had been reprimanded for stealing small trinkets from some local store. Hattie had to hide her purse when Raynita was in her house.
    â€œBrandon, you sure you don’t want some cookies?”
    Brandon glared at her with tight lips.
    â€œNanny, can I have some more?” Raynita asked, after wolfing down two cookies and half a glass of cold milk.
    â€œI said, I don’t want no stupid cookies. Stop punking me!”
    â€œPunking? What? Boy, please. Honestly, you starting to act more like your father every time I see you. And don’t take that as a compliment.”
    Brandon frowned up at her. “Don’t be talking about my daddy either.” He stood up with balled fists.
    â€œBoy, I’m forty-nine years old and this is my house. I can talk about what I want.” Hattie fought the urge to laugh. In her heart, she knew that they were good kids, but she also knew their tendency for