It was a long and unblinking, the sort of look that wouldn't be odd on a cat or an alligator, but was a tad disturbing on the pretty face of a woman with hair like collector's doll. But Sato could hardly be blamed for it; the silly child smelled like Meyer lemons and homemade tapioca! It was a mixture that went excellently with grilled squid--wait. No. Focus.
Reaching into one of the bags, she fished out a brightly wrapped mint and put it in the boy's paw. "Thank you...Matt."
Because, really, who else could he be?
She passed him the smaller of the bags--too thin, who's feeding the child?--and held out the bigger tote to Wes. "You can take this lot to the kitchen. Then, scrape your master off whatever he's stuck on and drag him to the stove." Dark eyes, currently the exact color of licorice, pierced through the blandness. "Which one are you, David or Wesley?"
And why, oh why, little dear is there such a meaty piece of terror wrapped around your mind? You should be shaking with the force and dread of it. You should be howling. Instead he was radiating the terse civility of a well trained Doberman.
Sato's black eyes narrowed.
Her tone, however, remained idly. Almost pleasant. "Ah, I see Mr. Harper is absent. Pity. I wanted to offer my apologies to a conscious specimen this time. Is he still recovering, then?"