Say You'll Stay And Marry Me

“Let’s go take a look and see if we can’t fix something up.” She stood and carried her cup to the sink.

“My turn to do the dishes!” Michael shouted, jumping from his chair. He grabbed the two empty pizza boxes and, with a flourish, stuffed them into the trash can under the sink. “Done!”

Jacob looked daggers, but, in a show of restraint, he turned his back on Michael’s smile of triumph. “The office is this way, ma’am,” he said formally, obviously trying to appear more mature than his brother.

Once again, Sara found herself hiding a smile as she followed his stiff and dignified back down a hallway to a book-lined room.

The boys tugged and pulled until they had the couch transformed into a bed, albeit with a sizable sag in the center. Still, they decided it was better than the stairs, and after a quick search for sheets and blankets pronounced the office a suitable sickroom ready for Mac’s return.

“Anything else you can think of?” Jacob asked, giving the mattress another bounce.

She shook her head. “Looks good to me.”

“Then I think I’ll head for my room and listen to some tunes.” He was at the door in two strides. “Good night, ma’am. Thank you for your help.”

Michael looked desperately after his brother, and she knew this was Jacob’s revenge for the dishes scam. He’d left Michael alone to entertain her for the rest of the evening, slick as a whistle.

“How about another cup of coffee, Michael?”

“Uh, no thanks. I, uh—” His freckles blended together as his face reddened.

She took pity on him. “I think I’ll pour me a cup, then call it a night, if that’s all right with you. It’s been a long day.”

“That would be great. I mean,” he amended hastily, “you have all the coffee you want. Or watch some TV or something. I guess I’m going to my room, too, so you can just—”

“You go on up. I’ll let myself out.”

“Night.” He bolted for the stairs as if afraid she’d change her mind and want a partner for an evening of gin rummy or someone to hold her yarn.

She retraced her steps to the kitchen, filled her cup, then unplugged the coffeemaker and dumped the rest of the pot down the sink. Leaning against the counter, she looked around the big, cluttered, old-fashioned kitchen. The refrigerator and stove gleamed white with the rounded edges she remembered from appliances of her childhood. Their heavy lines were at odds with expensive Mexican tile, oak cupboards and a custom countertop that spoke of a recent remodel. One wall was decorated with shining copper molds—a fish, a sun, a pineapple—their soft glow warming the room. She wondered if they were a leftover touch from the days of that ex-wife Mac seemed so reluctant to discuss.