Bingo Brown and the Language of Love Read Online Free Page A

going to leave, he reached manfully for his apron and tied it on.
    “You will have to excuse me now, I am preparing, er, chicken chests.”
    He grimaced. He was sorry he hadn’t been cool enough to say breasts, but it was done now.
    “Oh, can I watch? I’ll sit over here and hold Misty. I won’t bother you at all.”
    “I’d rather you didn’t.”
    “Misty’s mouth is already watering for some chicken, isn’t it, Misty? Do you have any paper napkins, Bingo?”
    Bingo didn’t answer. He turned on the oven—350—and bent over his recipe book. He had decided to pretend that no blonds were present.
    Misty was watching him with her blank, all-seeing stare, but Bingo ignored that, too.
    “Oh, here they are.” Cici pulled out a napkin and dabbed at Misty’s receding chin. Then she turned her attention to Bingo. “You’re probably wondering about how I came to have three jocks for fathers. Everybody does.”
    She waited for Bingo to answer, but there was only the sound of chicken skin being ripped firmly from chicken breasts.
    “The first was my real father. He was a golf pro. He and my mom split up, and she married a man who used to play tight end for the Atlanta Falcons.”
    Bingo browned the chicken chests. Over the sizzle, he heard, “I was flower girl in that wedding. Then they split up, you know, and my mom married a man who manages the Nautilus. They pump iron together. I was the junior bridesmaid in that wedding.”
    Bingo poured the sauce over the chicken and slid the casserole into the oven.
    “If she ever gets married again, I guess I’ll be maid of honor.”
    Bingo wiped his hands on his apron.
    “So, you see, I do know something about jocks.”
    Bingo got out the salad. He had already cut up the lettuce and vegetables and had planned to toss it, cheflike, at the table as a diversion for his parents. Now he had to do it as a diversion for himself.
    “Can I tell you something?”
    Bingo said, “If you like,” but he did not let up on his tossing.
    “You are a wonderful cook,” Cici said.
    Lettuce fluttered nervously into the air and onto the counter as Bingo’s head snapped up in alarm. “No, I’m not. I promise I’m not!”
    He was only beginning to understand how important it was that this girl not like him. The thought surprised him. It had never even occurred to Bingo that the day would come when he would actually want to be disliked.
    And, furthermore, he didn’t want any big blonds to like him. He wanted them to avoid him, to cross the street when they saw him coming.
    It was strange how just one experience with a big blond could made a man yearn for a small brunette.
    “I’m very careless; I don’t measure stuff,” he blurted out, gathering up the stray salad and dropping it back in the bowl. “Half the time I don’t even wash my hands.”
    “Real chefs don’t either. I’ve watched them on TV. I wish you could see the way my mom fixes meals. She just, you know, covers everything with bean sprouts.”
    “Smells good!” Bingo’s mom called cheerfully from the front door.
    Bingo swirled, stricken.
    “Quick! Go out the back door. Give me the dog! Go on! Go!”
    “Why?”
    “It’s my mom!”
    “What does your mom have to do with it?”
    “Just go!”
    Bingo and Cici had a brief tug of war over Misty. Bingo won, but he staggered back and landed hard against the refrigerator door.
    Condiment bottles clinked inside. Liquids sloshed. Ice cubes rattled.
    “What on earth is going on back there?”
    Bingo’s mom started across the living room.
    “Nothing, Mom,” Bingo called. “Don’t come in. Please! I want supper to be a surpr—”
    He didn’t get to finish because his mom was already there. She stopped in the doorway, taking in the domestic scene. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the blond.
    Bingo put Misty on the floor. He smoothed down his apron modestly.
    His mom’s face tightened in a way Bingo had never cared for. “So! What is going on back here?”
    “She