The only word Mike can think of to describe the tiny, big-eyed thing peering over the counter at him is moppet, and all the blame for that can definitely be laid at Bill’s feet. She’s three feet nothing with curly dark hair all over the place, a snub nose, freckles and a grin nearly the size of her entire face.
She grips the edge of the front counter with small fingers, sparkly purple nail polish chipped and ragged, and says, “I need to play the accordion.”
“Oh,” Mike says, folding his arms so he can lean onto his elbows. “You need to?”
A harried voice somewhere to the left says, “Al. Al, ask, please.”
Mike looks up at him, one eyebrow quirked in amusement, and tries not to show any surprise on his face over the fact that Kevin fucking Jonas is standing there, staring at him earnestly.
“Sorry,” Jonas says. “She’s got manners, I swear.”
“Please,” Al says, demanding Mike’s attention again.
Mike has trouble saying no to small children and animals. It’s a weakness he can’t hide very well. The problem is that he runs a music shop, and music shops tend to have lots of nosy witnesses. Mike sighs, pretends to be put-upon, and says, “I suppose I can teach you the accordion.”
Al thrusts a tiny fist in the air and shouts, “Yes!”
Never in Mike’s life has he seen anyone this enthusiastic about learning the accordion. He’s freaking charmed.
He looks at Jonas again and says, “So there’s paperwork.”
Jonas bobs his head. “Sure, sure. I can, um. Someone can bring her over after school, any day but Thursdays.”
Mike checks the giant wall calendar Bill insists on. It’s gratifying filled. “I can do Tuesdays at 4, if that works.”
Jonas says, “Yes, yeah,” on a relieved puff of air.
Mike narrows his eyes at Al. “You’re a handful, aren’t you?”
Her grin shows off at least two lost teeth. “Uncle Nick says I’m pre-co-cious.”
“Right.” Uncle Nick. Nick Jonas. Mike might’ve been star struck if he was a) a pre-teen, or b) not friends with Pete Wentz. He says, “Okay to start tomorrow?” to Jonas.
He has close-cropped hair that curls on the top, ruddy cheeks and a goofy smile that Mike tries very hard not to find attractive. “Please.”
Later, Bill says, “He’s head administrator of the Bush’s Baked Beans fan forum,” sounding absolutely delighted.
“He’s got two kids and a wife,” Mike says, in the middle of counting out receipts.
“Nah-uh, my friend.” Bill spins the laptop he’s bent over around and shoves it toward Mike’s face. “He’s got two kids, three yappy dogs and an ex-wife.”
Mike squints at the screen. “Separated.”
Bill looks triumphant. “And he’s head administrator of Bush Brotherhood. It sounds like a cult.”
They should be closing up, but instead he's letting Bill google Kevin Jonas and trying to act pissed about it.
Jonas has grown into his hair and his cheeks and Mike kind of wants to make him blush. Separated isn't bad. He can work with that.
The bell over the shop door dings because Bill always forgets to lock it when he flips the sign—but people should still read the fucking sign—and Mike opens his mouth to scare whoever it is off, then shuts it with an audible click of his teeth. Huh.
Kevin Jonas shuffles his feet and says, “So, uh, my therapist says I should take more chances.”
Bill gasps again, this time with a hand pressed to his chest.
Mike kicks him in the shin and then skirts the counter to lean against the other side, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah?” Mike can be smooth. It happens.
Kevin makes a face, ducks his head and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. The longer dark curls on top of his head spill over his forehead.
There’s a thump on the front display window, and then what looks like Joe Jonas squishing his face up against the glass. His voice is muffled on, “Kevin! I’m hunnnnngry,” like a zombie or a three year old.
Bill says, “This is wonderful.”
Mike is still not one hundred percent sure what’s going on here, but he says, “What kind of chances are you planning on taking here? You need to learn the accordion too?”
“Uh.” He jumps a little when Joe bangs on the window with a fist—if he breaks that, Mike’s gonna sue—and then Kevin blurts out, “Dinner!”
Mike knows what he means, but also thinks this entire situation is hilarious.
Joe’s mouth is open, leaving the pane smeared and fogged from his breath. He’s going to get some kind of disease, Mike isn’t sure they’ve ever even washed those windows since they bought the place four years ago.
Mike hooks a thumb toward him and says, “Kind of think that’s your brother’s point.”
“No! I mean.” Kevin deflates on a sigh. “This was easier in my head.”
“Oh, give the poor dude a break, Carden,” Bill says, snapping his laptop shut and getting to his feet. He sweeps a bow and says, “Michael would be delighted.”
Kevin’s eyes light up. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks at Mike like a hopeful puppy.
“Dinner,” Mike says. Bill’s right, it’s not like Mike’s going to say no.
Kevin fucking beams, Mike wants to rub his thumbs all over his apple cheeks. He’s in so much trouble.
“Don’t worry,” Kevin says, as Joe drags himself sideways, glass screeching, moaning, ‘Foooooood.’ “Joe’s not invited.”
