Royally Raised(11)

But Chelsea’s raised hand stops her cold. “Tut, tut— shush.”

She scoops the little one— Rosaleen— up under her arms and perches her on the counter. “And I’d almost believe you,” Chelsea tells her, plucking two baby wipes from a tub next to the sink, wiping the girl’s chin, and showing her the pink-stained cloth, “except for the evidence all over your face.”

Great minds think alike.

The little girl stares at the cloth with quarter-sized blue eyes. Then, like any defendant who knows she’s nailed, she does the only thing she can— throws herself on the mercy of the court.

“I’m sorry, Riley.”

Riley is unmoved. “That won’t give me my lipstick back, you little brat!”

“I couldn’t help myself!” she pleads.

And I unconsciously nod. That’s it, kid— go with insanity. It’s all you’ve got left.

“The lipstick was in there, calling to me . . .”

Voices. Voices are good. Always an easy sell.

Her hands delve into her blond curls, ruffling and tugging at them, until they’re wild and crazed. “It made me nuts! It’s so pink and pretty, I had to touch it!”

Chelsea closes her eyes and breathes deep, making those fabulous tits press against her blouse even more. I enjoy the show, praying for a button to pop or for the sink to spontaneously spurt water all over that white shirt.

A guy can dream.

“Riley, what are your chores this week?”

“I have to set the table for dinner.”

Her voice is kind but firm. “Okay. Rosaleen, you’ll do your sister’s chores for the rest of the week. And when you get your allowance on Sunday, you’ll use it to replace the lipstick you ruined. Understood?”

“Okay. Sorry, Riley.”

Chelsea runs a tender hand through Rosaleen’s messy curls. “Now, go upstairs and wash your face, then come set the table.”

With a nod, she hops off the counter and skips past me up the steps.

Her sister vehemently objects. “That’s it? That’s all you’re doing to her?”

Chelsea sighs, a little annoyed. “She’s seven, Riley. What do you want me to do— beat her with a stick?”

“It’s not fair!” she bellows. So much fucking louder than necessary.

“Sometimes life isn’t. The sooner you understand that, the better off you’ll be.”

Riley smacks the counter. “I hate this family!”

In a whirl of brown hair and fury, she stomps up the stairs, glaring at me along the way. Like I ruined her fucking lipstick.

“Sweet girl,” I tell Chelsea dryly.

“She’s fourteen. It’s a tough age.” She looks wistfully up the steps. “She’ll be human again . . . eventually.”