What a Man's Gotta Do Read Free Page B

right out of you—
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    He looked down into a pair of challenging blue eyes underneath an explosion of red curls that didn’t look real. Long legs in white, lacy tights or whatever you called them peeked out from underneath a purple jumper with flowers all over it, incongruously ending in clunky pink-and-silver sneakers. Kid was skinny, but not fragile. Probably one of those girls who liked to beat up boys. And did, regularly. “Italian sausage and peppers. Wanna taste?”
    That got a wrinkled nose. “No, thank you. Peppers don’t agree with me.”
    Cocking one brow, Eddie opened one oven door to remove the baked ziti. Instantly, the temperature in the kitchen rose another ten degrees. It wasn’t that he didn’t like kids, even though the idea of having any of his own never even made the playoffs. He just never quite knew what to make of them, was all. “Who told you that?”
    â€œNobody told me,” came the indignant reply. “I get all burpy when I eat them. What’s your name?”
    Eddie straightened, set the ziti on the prep table behind them, then grabbed a towel from the bar on the stove, wiped his hands. Where the hell was the kid’s mother? “Eddie King. And yours?”
    â€œCaroline Sedgewick, but most people call me Carrie. My mama’s Galen’s accountant. That’s why we’re here, so she can get some papers or something so she can take them home and work on our computer. After she finishes our costumes for the play tonight. Galen’s gonna have a baby pretty soon. That’s why her belly’s so big. Are you the new cook?”
    Figuring the question signaled a break in the onslaught,Eddie said, “That’s what I’m hopin’. You know, you sure got a lot to say for such a little thing.”
    â€œI know.” Unaffected, the child hiked herself up onto a nearby stool, making something sparkle on the sneakers. “I’m in first grade, but I can read better’n anybody in my class. Better’n some second graders, too. Lucas can’t even write his name right yet, and he’s only a year younger’n me. But he’s a boy. And everybody knows boys are slower’n girls.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œUh-huh. Well, ’cept for my uncle Steve, who lives out on a farm. He just got married last summer and we all got to go to the wedding, which was all the way over in Europe because Aunt Sophie’s a princess. But I heard Grandma Bev tell Pop-Pop one day when they didn’t know I could hear ’em talking that my daddy was dumber than…well, it’s a word that rhymes with ‘spit’ but I’m not supposed to say it.” Then she pointed. “What’s that around your neck?”
    Feeling slightly dizzy—what was that about somebody marrying a princess?—Eddie felt for the chain that was always there, then slipped it out from underneath his sweater. Had to admit, the kid was kinda entertaining. If you were into bossy little girls with egos the size of Canada. And one thing he’d say for someone who talked that much: it made his part in the conversation much eaiser. “It’s a cross. Used to belong to my mama.”
    Carrie leaned over to inspect it. He half expected her to whip out a jeweler’s loop. “It’s pretty. How come you have it?”
    â€œMy mama gave it to me right before she died, when I was real little. About your age, in fact.”
    She looked up, her expression melting into what Eddie could only surmise was genuine sympathy, tugging something in his chest he didn’t want tugged. “Are you sad? That your mama died?”
    â€œIt was a long time ago. Like I said.”
    â€œOh. Where’s your daddy?”
    With a shrug, he slipped the cross back inside his sweater, his emotions back inside their little box. “I have no idea.”
    Eddie realized the child was scrutinizing him