Hitched(49)

“My heart?”

I nod and he leans in, kissing me with so much love I know it will make me cry if he doesn’t stop soon. But just as the waterworks are about to erupt, he pulls back and announces, “Time to go feed our bellies. Newlyweds can’t survive on sex alone,” almost as if he knows.

Knows that we’re going to have to get there with baby steps.

But that he also has no doubt that we’ll get there, one day and steamy night at a time.





Twenty





Blake





* * *



You know those nights when you beg the universe to cut you some slack?

To ease up and let everything go smoothly for once in the history of your lovably insane family so you can impress the woman of your dreams?

And then you show up to your belated bachelor party to find a woman stranded atop her cupcake car, surrounded by a family of raccoons and sobbing into the cake boxes in her arms?

“Looks like tonight’s going to be another one of those nights,” I mumble beneath my breath as I drop the gate on the trailer and Hope hitches a lead onto Chewy’s harness.

She follows the direction of my gaze, her eyes narrowing. “Oh, no. Poor thing. I’m beginning to think she and her cakes really are cursed.” She sighs. “She must not know they’re pet raccoons.” She hands me the rope. “Take Chewy out back to meet everyone. I’ll rescue the dessert delivery girl.”

But before Hope can start down the line of cars parked in front of my parents’ five-acre ranch, Clint jogs up the path from the house, shouting, “George Cooney, get your fluffy ass inside before Ryan kennels your entire family.”

George’s main squeeze, Sticky Fingers, stands on her hind legs and blinks her bright eyes at Clint, bringing her front paws together in an impressive begging display, but my brother’s having none of it.

“Go on, get,” he says, shooing the would-be cake bandits back toward the gate enclosing the backyard. “I’m serious. Mom and Dad used to raise show wieners. They’ve got a kennel plenty big enough for all of you.”

“Show wieners?” Hope whispers, laughter in the voice.

“Miniature dachshunds,” I confirm. “But growing up we called them the showeenies. One of Dad’s many get-rich-with-a-side-gig ideas that turned out to be way more work than he bargained for. The vet bills alone almost broke him.”

She hums beneath her breath as George chitters something serious-sounding. A moment later he and his entire family—Sticky Fingers and their three babies, who are plump adolescents by now—make a break for the back yard.

Atop the cake-mobile, the spiky-haired pixie lets out a shaky breath as she turns to Clint. “So they’re not rabid?”

“Nope. Just a bunch of poorly behaved pets.” He crosses to stand beside her passenger’s side, reaching his arms up. “Here, let me help you down.”

The woman visibly recoils, like she’s encountered a rotted corpse instead of a buff Marine with green eyes nearly as pretty as mine. My mother told me I have the best eyes way too many times for me to believe it’s anything less than the truth, which means his must be second best.

“No, I’ll get down on my own,” she says in a tight voice. Adding, “But thanks,” as a none-too-friendly afterthought.

“All right,” he replies, still amiable and welcoming. “Then how about the boxes? Want me to take those? Make it easier for you to climb off the roof?’

The woman shakes her head harder, backing still farther from his outstretched hands. “Oh, no. No way, I can’t—” Her words end in a gasp of surprise as she pitches backward off the roof of her car.

Hope sucks in a breath, hand flying to cover her mouth, but exhales in relief a moment later as Clint lunges and saves her, catching her in the nick of time. Sadly, her boxes don’t fare nearly as well. The tops of the white dessert containers fly open, spilling cupcakes all over the pavement as he draws the woman closer.

After an initial curse, she goes limp, allowing herself to relax into his arms. He sets her on her feet and curls a gentle hand around her shoulder, leaning down to say something I can’t make out from this far away.

I angle closer to listen in, but Hope grabs the sleeve of my shirt. “She’s already mortified enough, I’m sure, without knowing she had an even bigger audience. Leave them alone.”

She winks, and I nod. “Fair enough.”

I follow her to the shortcut to the back gate where Sticky Fingers and the teen raccoons are perched atop of the trashcans, peering over the edge of the fence at the scene unfolding by the street.

“You too,” Hope says to the mama. “Leave them alone. And that goes for the people as well as the cupcakes. You don’t need all that sugar. Remember what happened to George?”

At the word “cupcakes” Sticky Fingers bares her teeth in something a little too devious to be a smile, but that makes Hope laugh anyway. “Speaking of, where’s George? He’s not going after the cupcakes, is he?”

Sticky Fingers chirps at her.

“What did she say?” I ask Hope.

“She’s a raccoon. I have no idea.” She looks back over her shoulder. “But it doesn’t look like he’s near the cupcakes.”