Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code #1)(44)

“Dad, can I make a pirate ship?” Tucker asks.

“Sure. I’ve got some Legos for you at home.”

“No, Dad, to enter in the contest!”

“Next year, bud. They’re closed this year.”

“I’ll judge your ship, Tucker,” Monica tells him. “And I’d bet it’ll be awesome.”

They’re best friends since hanging out digging for treasure this morning.

“How’s your leg today?” Monica’s mom asks me as we make our way to the next room, which has tables and tables loaded down with pirate-themed food.

“Better than a peg leg,” I tell her.

“Dad! Dad, can I have an octopus?” Tucker asks.

Wyatt catches him by the shoulders. “Slow down, there, Captain Hollow Leg. See Miss Monica’s scoring chart? She needs to decide what’s pretty before we taste it, and then she has to rate how good it is.”

“No need to worry, we have extras for the wee ones.” Pop Rock ambles over, dressed today like his ancestor, Thorny Rock. “Right this way, right this way.”

My stomach gives a timely growl, and Monica laughs. “Go on, Ellie. All of you. We’ll be done soon.”

“I’ve never eaten a hot dog in my life,” Mrs. Dixon murmurs to her husband. “This is the most undignified festival I’ve ever seen.”

“I think it’s fun,” Sloane declares. “They say fun cures constipation.”

Patrick shoots her a look. She smiles back tightly.

And Wyatt and I share a look.

So there’s trouble in Patrick-Sloane land.

Pop opens the door to the center’s industrial kitchen, and oh my word, the food.

So much food.

Plates and platters of entrées, appetizers, sides, and— “Cookies!” Tucker exclaims.

It’s the same food out on display—deviled egg ships with pirate flags, island pizza, quicksand dip, pirate eyeballs, hot dogs cut into wedges with the bottom half sliced to give it octopus legs, meat cannonballs—except there are paper pirate plates and napkins and a huge bowl of pirate punch that’s obviously been dipped into.

“Eat up, me hearties,” Pop says. “That there be kiddie punch, because me blasted crew drank up all the rum last night.”

“Are these meatballs made with chicken?” Mrs. Dixon demands, pointing to the pirate eyeballs.

Monica’s mom smiles. She’s dressed like a hippie pirate, with a scabbard tied over her flowery muumuu and a pirate hat on her short graying hair. “Yes, Caroline, they’re chicken. I called ahead and checked because I knew you’d prefer it.”

Wyatt and I both turn around before Mrs. Dixon looks at either of us. He dives for a plate to help Tucker make a few healthy choices before getting to dessert, and I take a minute to wipe the smile off my face as I pretend to decide between the quicksand dip and shovels—aka hummus and vegetables—and the grilled parrot—aka chicken wings.

Ultimately, both win.

We all load up our plates and carry them into the center’s dining room, where other judges are eating and discussing the festival. Monica’s mom takes the seat beside me at the rectangular table, and Wyatt and Tucker pile in across from us.

Jason’s family sits at the table behind me, and I breathe a sigh of relief that I can make any face I want without fear of getting an earful of loudly murmured insults.

“Ellie, honey, how’s work?” Monica’s mom asks.

I tell her about a few of the projects I’ve been overseeing. My parents’ environmental firm has contracts to retrofit several aging buildings around Copper Valley to improve energy efficiency. We’re also working on initiatives with the local government to promote more recycling options around the city, and we’ve been branching farther and farther into other parts of Virginia, West Virginia, North Carolina, Kentucky, and Tennessee.

She asks Wyatt about his job, and he downplays the whole flies jets with untested systems thing, because god forbid the man toot his own horn. Tucker’s too busy chowing down on everything on his plate to talk. He has a smear of ketchup across his face, which makes me smile, both because Tucker gets cuter every day, and also because it makes me remember holding Wyatt at ketchup-point this morning.

But then I’m frowning, because I’m not supposed to let myself find Wyatt attractive, since it’s bad for our health.

And I probably shouldn’t get attached to his son either.

Monica’s mom asks how we met and started dating, and we trip over each other telling contradictory stories that all make Tucker giggle, but we’re saved by Monica dropping into the seat on the other side of her mother.

“Don’t listen to them,” Monica says. “Their relationship thrives on one-upping each other. The real story is that they’ve been in love since they were teenagers but were both too stubborn and scared to do anything about it until recently.”

I open my mouth to argue, but I realize she’s boxed us into a corner.

She grins at me.

And Wyatt leaps up, uses his chair as a vault to fly across the cafeteria table.

“Wha—” I start, turning to watch him leap across the table behind us too. “Oh, shit.”

“Oh my god,” Monica gasps.

Jason drops his plate upside down and rushes to the table too, where Wyatt’s lifting Caroline Dixon off her chair and giving her the Heimlich.