Hitched(50)

“He’s probably going after the tacos,” I point out, and she laughs.

Farther into the backyard, the party is in full swing. Mom and Dad are in the Jacuzzi, surrounded by tiki torches and clearly on the verge of making out post glasses of champagne. Up on the deck, the rest of the crew—Ryan and Cassie, Jace and Olivia and Clover, napping in a baby swing swaying softly back and forth at the urging of Olivia’s bare toes—are talking and laughing and eating.

At least, until Ryan spots us. “Hey! It’s the newlyweds! And only…seventeen minutes late.”

Jace grins over his daughter’s swing. “Pay up, old man.”

“You were betting on how late we’d be?” Hope asks with a smile.

“Yeah, and frankly, I’m sorry for you that you weren’t later.” Jace shakes his head in faux disapproval. “Blake. Man. Falling down on those newlywed responsibilities.”

“Judging by Hope’s pink cheeks, I think he’s doing just fine,” Cassie says.

“Her electrical aura does seem significantly calmer,” Olivia agrees, winking at Hope. “Guess I was right about the soothing power of a little love?”

Hope goes pinker. “I—you—maybe?”

“Wait, what?” I ask.

“It’s simple,” Olivia replies. “Lovemaking calms Hope’s wiper tendencies. It puts her in balance.”

“Yay! More babies!” Mom cries from the hot tub, lifting her champagne flute. She and Pop both get the giggles.

Hope laughs nervously and presses closer to my side.

And I decide I definitely need to kiss her more.

It’s for her own good. Olivia said so.

“Hey, can we not embarrass my wife?” I ask my family.

They all exchange glances, then bust up laughing. “No,” Ryan says. “Sorry, pal. Bachelor party rules dictate embarrassing you, and that means her by proximity.”

“It’s okay.” She squeezes my hand, her eyes bright. “I like your family. They’re…”

“Obnoxious?” I suggest.

“Entertaining?” Ryan says.

“Brilliant?” Cassie offers.

“Kind,” Olivia interjects as she pets Chewy, who’s pushed past us to get to her because the alpaca would carve Chewpaca + Olivia 4ever into the side of a tree if he could.

“Hilarious,” Jace says over everyone else.

“Real,” Hope concludes with a smile. “And all those other things too.”

Clint opens the back door and steps onto the porch with a box full of smashed cupcakes balanced in one hand and a plate of tacos in the other, making me wonder how he opened the door at all, except he’s a Marine, so I guess that’s probably how.

“Eat ’em and like ’em,” he says, putting the cupcakes on the table before handing me the plate of tacos.

“Ladies first.” I lift a taco to Hope’s lips, holding her gaze while she takes a bite.

“Oh, yum,” she moans, and I’m suddenly wildly jealous of a taco. Only I get to make her moan like that, Mr. Taco. In fact, I want to take her home and make her moan for me all over again, even though it’s barely been an hour since we made love in the kitchen.

“More?” I ask.

“God, yes. I’m so hungry.”

While the other couples snicker—and Mom and Dad toast to more babies again—Hope takes another bite, and my cock insists that we take these tacos behind the barn and kick their asses before whisking Hope away to a place where we can be alone.

Before I can talk down my anatomy, a giant black and gray blur leaps from the roof to land smack-dab in the middle of the cupcake box, sending frosting and cake splattering everywhere as George touches down.

With matching cries of surprise, Jace and Olivia push away from the table, Jace grabbing Clover’s swing in one hand and shifting it farther from the scene of the crime.

Chewpaca hums angrily at the trash panda, but he, too, backs away as George turns in a gleeful circle, greedy fingers clenching and releasing as he swims in his own private pool of cupcakes.

“George!” Ryan barks. “Get out of there!”

George defiantly shovels a paw full of icing into his mouth with one hand while he tosses Ryan half an uneaten taco with the other, a peace offering that ends up on the ground and that my brother clearly doesn’t find appealing.

Or cute.

“Enough,” Ryan rumbles.

“Cut it out, George!” Cassie adds as they both close in on him. “Remember the peanut butter? This will be ten times worse. Out! Out!”

Hope’s gaze darts between the raccoon—she’s helped him out of many a scrape before—and Chewpaca, who’s sniffing at the taco George chucked on the ground.

“No, Chewy,” I say, shifting the taco plate to one hand as I wrap my free arm around the alpaca’s chest, drawing him closer as Clint gets down in George’s face.

“Your superior said no cupcakes,” he says, low and menacing. “Last time I checked, no means no, Private Masked Bandit.”

At that, I swear the trash panda goes pale.

He drops the glob of icing in his fingers, trips over his own tail turning around, and though it takes him three tries to get his backside over the edge of the cake box, when he does, he takes off like a shot.