Chapter 3
At the top of the grand staircase, Andrew stood with his hands in his pockets, having watched the entire drama unfold.
He caught my eye, pushed his glasses up, and offered a knowing smirk.
"Nice work, Stepmom."
I just smiled back, replying, "I thought so."
His smirk faltered, and then he flashed an even brighter grin as he sauntered down the stairs towards me.
"So, does this mean we can expect a home-cooked breakfast tomorrow? I'm getting so tired of what the chef makes. You are our new mother, so taking care of us is part of the job, right?"
It was such a petty, childish attempt to corner me.
I beamed at him, reminding him, "Of course! But you'd better get to bed early. I'll be waking you up."
His smile completely vanished. For a high school kid, waking up five minutes earlier was a fate worse than death.
But for a grinder like me, getting up early was nothing.
Back in high school, I ran on two or three hours of sleep a night.
I could be a walking zombie and still be the first one up.
Besides, I was actually looking forward to cooking.
Growing up without much, I never really ate well, which turned me into a closet foodie. The problem is, my schedule was usually so jam-packed that I could hardly find the time to actually indulge those cravings in the kitchen.
Plus, the Sinclair family had actual five-star chefs on staff. It was a golden opportunity to pick their brains.
The next morning, when Andrew and Lucas came downstairs, their jaws dropped. The table was laden with a feast, at least ten different dishes, plus a steaming tureen of soup.
Lucas yelled, "Evil stepmom! Are you trying to make us explode?"
Their usual breakfast was a small, delicate, artfully arranged plate. They had never seen this much food in their lives.
I untied my apron with a sigh of satisfaction.
After so much brain work, a little physical labor felt fantastic.
"Don't be shy," I said with a huge grin. "Dig in."
Lucas cautiously eyed each dish, as if checking for poison.
Andrew, ever the picture of elegance, draped a napkin over his lap and sampled a small bite of everything.
He set down his fork, commenting, "The taste is average."
For anyone who had ever poured their soul into a meal, a comment like that was a slap in the face.
I propped my chin on my hand and gave him a look of deep sympathy.
"Picky eater," I murmured.
He just smiled, completely unbothered.
"No wonder you're not growing," I added casually.
Andrew's jaw tightened as he hissed, "I'm six-foot-one!"
I wagged a finger at him.
"Six-foot-even," I corrected sweetly. "I saw your last physical."
He clenched his fists under the table. A man's height is sacred.
Furious, he snatched his backpack and stomped out of the house.
As his driver pulled away from the curb, he suddenly yelled, "Stop the car!"
He jumped out, ran into a corner store, and came back with five cartons of milk, a drink he notoriously despised.
"I'll show you," he muttered, glaring at the cartons as if they were his mortal enemy.
He swore to himself he would conquer that last inch. He was going to be six-foot-one.
Lucas, being a little kid, couldn't eat much, but in a move that stunned the butler, he asked for several containers to pack leftovers for school.
Layton said, confused, "The school provides lunch. This will be cold by then. You might get a stomachache."
Lucas pouted, not wanting to explain himself. "Just pack it," he grumbled.
I knew exactly what this was about. I packed several boxes for him and ruffled his hair. "Go ahead," I said softly. "Make sure you tell your friends your mom made it, okay?"
Busted. Lucas froze, his mouth falling open in surprise. Then, looking totally mortified, he quickly turned and ran.
The scowl on his face wavered, betraying a begrudging respect he wasn't quite ready to admit.
Upstairs, Sophia was tugging uncomfortably at the unfamiliar fabric of her school uniform. She hadn't worn it in so long that it felt alien.
Seeing her, Layton couldn't help himself. "Ms. Sophia Sinclair, what's gotten into you?" he blurted out.
He wisely bit back the follow-up question: What fresh trauma did you just endure?
Sophia froze, her hand already moving to retreat back to her room to change.
She was furious, convinced I had lied to her, since Layton's reaction made it painfully clear she looked hideous!
I shot Layton a silent, frantic "zip it" look and swooped in, slinging an arm around Sophia's shoulders and guiding her toward the stairs.
"You look beautiful," I said. "Seriously, you're really pretty."
Sometimes, when a person makes a big change, the last thing they need is for someone to make a big deal out of it. It just makes them want to crawl back into their shell.
"Really?" she asked suspiciously. "You're not lying to me, are you? Because if you are, I'll make you regret it."
I gave her a serious, appraising look and then a firm nod.
"Really."
Her mood instantly brightened. Even the way she slung her backpack over her shoulder was lighter and more energetic.
Layton watched the unexpectedly peaceful breakfast scene unfold, giving me a discreet thumbs-up.
As the longest-serving member of the Sinclair family, he knew better than anyone what a nightmare these kids could be.
He had been braced for all-out war, ready to step in and play referee.
He had some pull with them, but to his astonishment, he wasn't needed at all.
He rubbed his balding head with a look of sheer awe on his face and quietly excused himself.