Free RUNAWAY by Christie Ridgway Page A

Mondegreen.’”
    “Ah,” Bryce answered. “So there’s a name for theinfamous line Owen once sang at summer camp—’He’s got the whole world in his pants.’”
    Izzy decided to be loyal and stifled her laugh. “Hey, I know someone who for years thought the refrain for that old TV show theme song was ‘The Brady Sponge, the Brady Sponge.’”
    “No one could be that dim,” Owen scoffed. Then he did a double take, his gaze narrowing on her face. “Wait, the ‘someone’ was you?”
    Heat shot up her face. “I was, like, six or something.”
    “Yeah, but ‘The Brady Sponge’? And you said you sang it that way for years. At least Caro and I clued in Bryce right away about Rudolph not hitting a tree.”
    “Yeah, but you let me wonder about Olive for half my life, “his brother grumbled.
    Once again, their exchange tickled Izzy’s funny bone. She let herself laugh now, appreciating the echoes of amusement on the faces of the men sharing her table. She was good at this “fitting in and making others feel comfortable” thing—no matter how temporary the circumstances for it were.
    “Really, Izzy,” Owen said, shaking his head. “I’m trying to wrap my mind around this, because it would seem to be a family-wide shame that should have been corrected immediately. What kind of siblings let you sing ‘The Brady Sponge’?”
    Oh. “I thought you knew. I’m an only child.” And for all Zia Sophia or Nonna Angela knew, it was “The Brady Sponge.” The only programs the elderly ladies watched on TV were The Price Is Right and their afternoon soaps.
    Owen frowned. “I wasn’t aware.”
    “Probably because he heard an Italian last name and assumed—well, we all know how wrong assumptions can be,” Bryce said, his expression pious. “I, on the other hand, make it my pleasure to learn a woman—um, a person—on an individual basis.”
    “Stop, Bryce,” Owen said. “Before I backhand you with my cast.”
    “I’ll tell Mom,” his younger brother taunted.
    “And I’ll—”
    “Stop, stop,” Izzy cut in, amused by their brotherly byplay. As always, what she’d never had fascinated and bemused her. “Bryce, your brother’s assumptions, if he actually had any, are not that far off the mark. There’s a gazillion Cavalettis. Grandparents, great aunts, uncles, aunts and cousins.”
    “Eight?” Owen asked softly.
    Her gaze dropped and she toyed with her fork, unwilling to let him see how his ability to connect the dots of her life made her just a little…nervous. “Close,” she said. “They’re all quite a bit older, though.” And then there were Zia Sophia and Nonna Angela, who were so old they thought girls still wore girdles and garter belts.
    Owen’s fingers tangled with hers on the tabletop.“So you were the runt of the litter?” His smile was kind. “Though I can’t imagine you being down for long.”
    That was her secret weapon. Never letting anyone see that she was down. Pretending, whether it was from within the pages of a book or within the home of some semireluctant relative, had been Izzy’s strength against insecurity. “Nobody can resist me for long,” she asserted.
    Owen’s fingers tightened on hers. “I’m a living example,” he said mildly.
    Bryce shot up from his seat. “Maybe I should get going on those dishes and then let myself out,” he said.
    “No.” Panic fluttered in Izzy’s chest. “No, Bryce. I made apple cobbler for dessert. You have to stay for that.” You have to stay and be the buffer between me and Owen. Though she knew he was desperate for entertainment, it was dangerous to allow it to be that kind of entertainment.
    “Stay, Bryce,” Owen ordered, his voice soft, his gaze fixed on Izzy’s face.
    Bryce stacked the plates. “Fine. I’ll take these downstairs and bring up—”
    “You’ll take those downstairs, load the dishwasher, do whatever scrub is necessary on the pots and pans and then bring up dessert,” Owen said.
    Without