Page 52 of Made for Mayhem

Dark eyelashes framed the brightest blue eyes before she seemed to realize what she’d said and the position we’d found ourselves in. Her pupils dilated and her cheeks flushed, her gaze drifting down my body as if she couldn’t help it. And holy shit, I couldn’t either.

My blood roared in my ears. I could feel the exact spot where my pulse hammered at the base of my throat, could feel the inconvenient heat pooling low in my gut.

Bare legs.

Soft skin.

Nipples pebbled in the cool morning beneath that tiny little shirt.

“Do we have more pancakes?” Junie called from the other room, and I snapped my gaze up to the wall above Daisy’s head, forcing oxygen back into my lungs. “I don’t want yogurt.”

When the tension finally snapped, Daisy scrambled to her feet and rushed down the hall, her shoulder grazing mine as she passed. The brief contact burned like a live wire. A second after she disappeared, I remembered to breathe again—shallow, but steady.

I pressed the heel of my hand against my sternum, trying to slow the frantic thudding.

This was my idea. My practical, temporary, torturous idea.

And I was already in way over my head.

“Ty?” Junie called again. “Pancakes?”

I scrubbed a hand over my face, then spun on my heel toward her. “Yeah, bug. They’re in the oven.”

By the time I got Junie situated with her purple plate, pink fork, and pancakes the way she liked them, the opening notes of Safety Dance drifted through the ceiling speakers.

Junie’s head popped up just as Daisy slid into the kitchen in pink socks, cutoff denim shorts that weren’t much better than her pajamas, and a shirt the same turquoise shade as Junie’s. Her hair was up in a messy bun now, and she held a hairbrush like a microphone.

She didn’t hesitate—she sang, loud and off-key and unselfconscious, like nothing in the world hurt.

Junie tried to hide her grin behind her fork, but Daisy caught it.

“Oh, come on,” she said between verses, pointing the brush at her like a mic. “I know you know this one.”

Junie shook her head, giggling.

Daisy kept going anyway, hips swaying, committing so hard it was impossible not to get swept up in it.

I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, unable to look away.

When Daisy broke into a terrible robot—arms stiff, knees jerking—Junie finally cracked, laughter spilling out of her like it had been trapped behind her ribs all morning.

Daisy clutched her chest. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a smile. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again—almost anything can be solved with a dance party.”

I adjusted my hat, not to grin. “Almost?”

She flashed me a look. “Almost.” Then, grinning, she jabbed the brush toward me. “You’re next.”

“Hard pass.”

“You don’t dance?”

“Not like that.”

“Then you’re no friend of mine, Huddy.”

Junie hopped down to join her, and the two of them started spinning in circles around the kitchen, laughter echoing off the walls. It was equal parts adorable and terrifying, and I couldn’t look away.

Daisy shone so brightly that it took a second to notice the cracks. Her smile stretched a fraction too wide, her eyes flicking up toward the ceiling before she wiped at her cheek and looked back down at Junie, smile already back in place.