by Angel Payne
Sawyer bursts with a gruff laugh. “All I’ve done is love you, sweetheart.” At once, his features intensify. He focuses on my sister like he’s holy fire readying to carve into some stone tablets. “All I ever long to do is love you.”
’Dia presses a soft kiss to his lips. “As I love you, big guy.”
He tightens his hold, compelling her face a few inches closer to his. “So that shit’s already sticking,” he murmurs. “Now let’s just make sure the rest of the world knows it.” He consumes the side of her face with his broad palm and long fingers. “Marry me, Spitfire. Let’s do this for real now.”
In typical Lydia fashion, my sister strings out her teasing silence. Nothing mars the air except my utterly messy sob. I’m not sorry, either. I’m too damn happy, already knowing what she’s going to say.
“That wasn’t really a question, Sawyer Howard.”
All right, so it wasn’t exactly that.
“You going to marry me or what, Lydia Harlow?”
I ding a finger into the air. “That’s officially a question.”
While jabbing a middle finger up at me, she lowers a tender kiss in at her grinning, gorgeous guy.
Before finally saying, “Yes.” And then rasping, “Yes, I will marry you, magnificent god.”
As Dad and I erupt into wild, rapid applause, Sawyer tunnels his hand back into ’Dia’s hair, forcing her to accept the deep, burning delve of his groaning, rolling kiss. When they’re still at it more than a couple of minutes later, I finally intercept with a tormented groan. “All right, you two need to get a damn room.”
Dad grimaces. “How about a ring first?”
“You mean like this one?” Sawyer’s the picture of cocky confidence while reaching behind the lamp on a side table, where he’s hidden a distinctive blue suede ring box. At the same time, he offsets the weight between he and Lydia so my sister is standing again. With the box poised between both his hands and his gallant Prince Charming kneel, our secret agent surfer man isn’t just taking ’Dia’s breath away now. I get a second to flash him with a firm thumbs-up before he sweeps his attention completely back on my bawling sibling. “Come on, Spitfire,” he growls quietly, nodding at her left hand. “Let me see it.”
As Lydia holds out her quivering hand and Sawyer slides the dazzling rock on her finger, Dad snorts with hearty approval. “That’s the way to treat my princess, Mr. Foley.”
Sawyer flicks up half a grin. “No. This is the way to treat my queen.”
I lift a new finger into the air. “Ding, ding, ding! And that, friends, was the superstud answer.”
With her eyes still leaking a little, Lydia still summons enough composure to insert a saucy smile—along with the perfect way to seal the deal with the man of her dreams. “Up, up, and away, kids.”
Chapter Five
Reece
I’ve never been picky about the extra decorating touches Emma’s brought to the Brocade’s penthouse over the last year. Necessity has dictated that we spend more time up here than even the condo we’ve kept over on the west side, and I’ve ordered her to revise things to feel more at home here. From new pictures on the walls to extra knickknacks on the shelves to new paint and fixtures in the bathrooms, I’ve enjoyed and approved of it all, freshly impressed each time by my wife’s creative eye and sense of fun.
But this time, she’s gone Fun.
Yes, with a capital F.
And yes—though I’ll never admit it to the woman’s face because I value my testicles—I’m damn glad this revamp is temporary.
The occasion is a worthy excuse. For Sawyer and Lydia’s engagement party, the woman of my heart has pulled out all the stops on her imagination—including the gift-table centerpiece that’s getting the brunt of my perturbed stare this second. The decoration features a huge red latex balloon holding up a miniature hot-air balloon basket—with a pair of dolls custom created to resemble the soon-to-be happy couple.
Emma had called the look “adorable.”
Not exactly the word that came to my mind.
As I glower down through the red balloon and force out thoughts of Annabelle and Chucky, I nearly pulse myself through the ceiling when a pair of playful faces appear on the other side of the huge orb. “Holy ssshhh…”
“Dada!” Lux cuts me off in the nick of time. “Loooook! You’re like Red Hulk, only not mean!”
A pair of full snickers from Lydia. “Give him props for the slightly better hair, kid.”
I lean out from the balloon, reapplying my glare. “Slightly better?”
“Compared to what’s between my thighs every night?” she mutters, taking advantage of Lux’s fascination with the gifts to throw a lusty glance toward her fiancé. Like me, Foley’s attempting to be a good sport about Emma and Lydia’s party theme choice. He’s dressed in a camel-colored suit with a brown silk tie and matching fedora, though the silky locks that have earned my sister-in-law’s worship are pulled back into a proper queue.
But I don’t care if the dude is Douglas Fairbanks reincarnated. “Not a visual I needed, sister.”
“Meh,” Lydia counters. “Just imagine the dolls doing it instead.”
“Ohhhh, that does it. I’m adding that one to your column on the list.”
“The eff?” While I’m grateful she’s replaced her favorite swear word with its kid-safe substitute, no way is she getting completely off the hook in my book—a fact I make clear with my serene smirk and unflinching arrogance. “What the hell kind of list? And why the daylights do I already have a ‘column’?”
I cock a brow. “Because I’m pretty sure Alex didn’t decide Steve Sarsgard was going to be a UFO geek all on his own.”
In situations like this, it’s fun to notice the differences between the Crist girls. Where my Emma would blush, avert her gaze, and then make a stab for my good graces with angel eyes and a sweet apology, Lydia is completely comfortable in her devil woman’s skin. “Well, if that’s the charge, then drag me away in cuffs, Your Honor.” She adjusts her long pearls and then winks. “Can you just make sure that Officer Foley gets to book me? And punish me?”
“And don’t you have the imaginations of other party guests to be ripping apart now?” I scan the living room of the Brocade’s penthouse, where Emma decided it’d be best to stage the party in light of the extensive guest list. Many of ’Dia’s friends from the tennis world are here, as well as some new friends she’s made since deciding to dive back into college, studying Kinesiology at USC. There are also a number of staff members from the Southern California offices of Richards Reaches Out, who know and love both Lydia and Foley.
As if the universe cued the coincidence, my remark precedes the arrival of yet another guest to the throng. But as soon as he walks in, catches sight of ’Dia and waves hello, she flings a stern side-eye back at me. “Don’t think of repeating that with my father on incoming, dude.”
“Repeat what?” I drawl. “The part about Sawyer putting you in handcuffs or the part about his dreamy locks nestled between your—”
“Daddy.”
She rushes forward to be crushed in Todd Crist’s affectionate embrace. “My sweet Dee,” he murmurs lightly against her pin-curled hair. “Well, don’t you look like the bee’s knees?”
Lydia bops his shoulder, laughing at his teasing reference to the party’s theme. “And you’re the cat’s meow, Daddy-o!”
I saunter forward. “You know, technically ‘Daddy-o’ wasn’t a thing until the fifties.”
She narrows her eyes. “It’s seriously creepy that you know that.”
“Amazing what a guy will remember from bartop trivia.”
Thankfully, Todd gives my comment a commiserating chuckle. “Mr. Richards.” And then extends his hand for a solid handshake. “Great to see you again—and for obviously contributing to both my daughters’ happiness.”
“It’s my pleasure,” I reply, dipping a respectful nod. “Just glad the party’s a success.”
He follows the line of
my gaze across the room, taking in all of Emma’s unique changes for the party. The vintage prints and Tiffany-style lights that have replaced our modern wall art and fixtures. The larger picnic props, such as a twenties-style bicycle and the front end of a Ford jalopy. And of course, the miniature hot-air balloons with the dolls creepier than my trivia compendium. “And what a party,” he finally states, his tone thick with wonder.
Lydia raises her hands, palms out. “This is all Emma,” she qualifies. “I’ve been nuts with school and the ProKennex racket deal.”
Todd slowly shakes his head. “I never knew she had this in her.”
“Right?” Lydia says. “And you should see the stuff she has out on the terrace.”
As if a higher source is listening in on us, my son’s delighted shriek accents the end of her assertion. That’s the fun part. The not-so-fun part? Lux is ready to tack on the expression that continues to be his favorite. “Holy shit!” And then again, as he barrels toward his grandfather with eyes and fingers ablaze.
“Crap!” Lydia exclaims.
“Goddamn,” Todd utters at the same time.
I don’t add to the dialogue. I’m too busy lunging out, using a minor pulse to do so, in order to snatch my kid up from the waist, spinning him around until my body is firmly shielding his from the rest of the partygoers. Once I plunk him back down on the hall credenza between the office and master bedroom, he’s shaking all over—especially in his cherubic little face. But behind that angel’s visage is the wild, devious brain of a kid twice as old. In short, I’m dealing with a kid who’s dedicated himself wholeheartedly to the “threenager” phase.
And yeah, that means steeling myself against all the stops he’s yanking out right now. The wide, watery eyes. The gulping sob. The mournful pouty lip joined by the trembling chin.
Fuck me in a Ford jalopy.
If I survive long enough to get across the room to the damn thing.
“Dada.” He adds to the act with a heartbreaking sniffle. “I sorry. I sorry.”
I shut my eyes—much more a measure for my sustenance than his. The Almighty had to go and recreate my wife’s gorgeous eyes in his precious face, turning every disciplinary act of mine into a feat of self-control. “Okay,” I finally say. “You’re sorry…for what?” When Lux only rubs his teary eyes with one hand and points haphazardly toward Todd with the other, I press, “Lux Mitchell Tycin. Use words. Tell me what you are sorry for.”
“Not thinkin’ smart about my powers.”
“And what else?”
“Almost hurtin’ Grandpy Todd with ’em.”
“And…?”
He thrusts the lip out farther. Holy crap. Only eighteen months old—or whatever—and already working the feels like a Shakespearean-trained actor.
“Lux?” I prod.
“And— And almost showin’ all the strangers my powers too.”
His sweet voice trembles and threatens to break. Though he’s successful in keeping that shit together, he loses the battle with his tears—the same way I lose mine with the heat of my tender love for him. “Come here, buddy,” I croak, yanking him tight. He wraps his little arms around my neck, soaking my shoulder inside two seconds with his sorrow. “I’m not mad at you, Lux. But dude, you know why Mama and I are so strict about you hiding your powers.”
His soft hair brushes my ear as he nods in earnest. “Yeah. I know, Dada.”
“You do?” I swivel back, resting on my haunches, so he can see my proud smile along with my encouraging tone. “So prove it.”
He cracks a huge smile in return but yanks in a long breath, per the training he’s been getting with Foley and me, to act as an erasure of the outward signs of his abilities. I want to whoop until the ceiling blows off—before whomping him with another proud hug. What he’s doing is the equivalent of a toddler sitting still during…well…Sesame Street. “Powers make me special. And special powers shouldn’t be wasted.”
“Good job.” I raise a hand and high-five him. “And what else?”
“If I show my powers to the wrong people, they might tell the bad people about it. Then the bad people will come and take me away from you and Mama.”
I invite him to another high-five. As soon as we’re done with the first smack, we go in for another, though end up with our fingers meshed this time—sending subtle bright-blue pulses at each other. The jolts, like static charge on repeat, cause Lux to laugh as if I’m fully tickling his belly. But as soon as he pulls away, finally overloaded on the intensity of his laughter, he mellows into deep contemplation.
No. He’s not contemplative.
He’s pensive.
“Lux?” I query. “Hey. What is it now, buddy?”
He shifts a little closer. Frames my jaw with the flatness of his palms as he peers hard into my eyes, as if searching for an actual item he’s left inside my head.
“Dada,” he finally murmurs, his big blues piercing to the back of my skull. “How come there are bad people?”
Ladies and gentlemen, this concludes our flight through the light-and-fluffy portion of this evening’s adventure. For those of you remaining with us for the what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-now bonus package, please remain seated, with both your heart and soul girded in lead.
“I’m not sure I know the whole answer to that, son.” I tug him tight and kiss the top of his golden head as he squirms to settle in my lap. And of course, because fate really wants to jack with me tonight, it’s the same moment I catch sight of Emma across the room, laughing at something one of her RRO staffers has said.
It astounds me that not a single member of the team ever connected “Steve and Sophie Sarsgard” back to the two of us. It’s even crazier that nearly two years to this day, Emmalina Crist brought those monthly reports to me up here, winding up in us doing a lot more than talking RevPAR and occupancy percentages—and I crave her just as fiercely as I did that night. Probably more. At the moment, it’s tough to really call, since our son is wiggling across my crotch as if we’re at Disneyland and the Lion King float is about to appear in the parade—a metaphor that at least helps with inspiration for my next words.
“You remember how sad Simba was after his dad died? So sad that he went away for a long time and was really angry at the world. Imagine what would have happened if Nala had given up on him.”
Another crotch stampede from my kid, who squirms with restless energy. “He would prob’ly still be angry!” he cries, twisting wide eyes up at me. “And Scar would be king!”
“Exactly.” I duck my head so our gazes are still in line. “But Simba didn’t go back and fight Scar when he was just a cub, right? He had to wait for the right time. He had to learn things and make sure he knew how to be responsible with his strength. He listened to the wisdom of his friends, like Timon and Pumbaa.”
“Like I do with Unca Sawyer and Unca Wade.”
“And in your school lessons with Miss Angelique, Uncle Fershan, and Uncle Alex.”
“But none of them are farty, like Pumbaa.”
“Well, I’m sure one of them would be, if you ask super ni—” I interrupt myself with a new groan as soon as my son decides that this is now a matter upon which the fate of nations rests and bounds off my lap without a shred of regard for the equipment he’s trampled in his wake.
“Unca Sawyer!” he shouts, running through the party in search of Foley. “I have to talk to you now. It’s about farts!”
Despite the agony in my balls, I croak out a laugh.
And quickly stagger down the hall, into the master bedroom.
Where the break I think I’m giving my system is snatched from the second I close the door, and there’s a jump of reaction from near the full-length window across the room. At first, my own senses prickle—until they’re hijacked by utter amazement. And then awe. And then gratitude.
Amazement—that I’ve managed to steal a moment alone with the woman I worship.
Awe—at the sight of the city lights stretching out behind her, illuminat
ing her beauty in new shades of silver, pink, purple, and gold.
Gratitude—that the universe has seriously given her to me. That I receive the validation of that enduring truth with the sight of the diamond adorning her left hand.
Mine.
Bound by the best superpower on this planet.
The love that glows from her kohl-lined eyes, breaches the crimson perfection of her full lips…and answers from every crevice of my dazzled heart.
“Well, well, well. Tell me what ya know, Daddy-o.”
As she concludes the tease by tugging the inside of her lip at the edge of her brilliant white grin, I stroll across the room, one hand in a front pocket, cocking my head in my best Sky Masterson impression. “What is with you Crist girls”—I tsk past my chastising smirk—“and insisting on borrowing words from the wrong centuries?”
Her gaze flares, but she recovers quick enough to pop her fingertips across her O-shaped lips. “Oh, oopsie,” she blurts, Betty Boop style. “Am I just bein’ a ditzy dame here, mistah?”
My gaze grows heavy as I slide close to her, savoring how the sexy spice of her new nighttime perfume blends perfectly with the tropical scents of her hair products. Like ’Dia, she’s got artful curls that tumble from the jeweled band around her forehead, with a spray of sparkly feathers attached to one side of the band. The adornment features the same turquoise and black color scheme of her whole costume, with her sparkly sheath designed to resemble peacock feathers. The dress hugs all the best curves of her figure, which has gotten a little more voluptuous since Lux’s birth—in all the best fucking ways.
“Were you saying something, doll?” I growl back, nuzzling my lips to her ear. “Sorry. I was busy being distracted by the most beautiful person on this planet.”
She hums with obvious skepticism. “The most? More than your son?”
“All right,” I concede. “The most beautiful person who’s old enough to drive.”
Her hum trickles into a giggle. “Wait ten minutes. That might change.”