Tied (Tangled, #4)(13)

Kate throws her hands up in the air. “Well, that’s just perfect! Now he’s going to spend the next two days with your parents talking like a foulmouthed little hooligan. What’s your mother going to think?”

I sober slightly, still smiling, taking her hand in mine and holding it against my chest. “Considering she’s the woman who had to raise the first foulmouthed hooligan? I think she’ll have an enormous amount of sympathy for you.”

Kate grins. “Which is totally deserved. I swear, between the two of you, I don’t know how I keep my sanity.”

“It’s the sex. If raisins are nature’s candy, screwing is its antidepressant. It’s the best way to maintain good mental health.”

An orgasm a day keeps the psychiatrist away.

Kate crosses her arms doubtfully. “Sure it is. That sounds an awful lot like when I was pregnant and you told me women who performed or**al se**x more often were less likely to develop preeclampsia.”

I point my finger at her. “That was totally true! I read an article about it.”

How awesome is that? If I wasn’t sure before, after that I was certain—God is definitely a guy.

“In what magazine? Playboy?”




“Men’s Health.”

Feeling left out, James tries to get another laugh out of me. “Poosy!”

I ruffle his hair. “Now you’re just showing off.”

Kate scoops him out of the chair and holds him close. “Are you done with breakfast, baby? Do you want to sing with Mommy?”

He claps his hands.

Most of James’s likes and dislikes mirror my own. He hates broccoli. Female sportscasters get on his nerves. And he despises televised figure skating. But he loves Kate’s voice.

Oh—and her boobs. See how he bends down to rub his face against them? Reveling in their symmetrical, cushiony softness.

I nudge his shoulder. “Dude, we’ve been over this—they were loaners. You’re cut off now.”

Kate breast-fed for the first year. Weaning was hell. Not that I blame the kid—if Kate told me her perfect tits were off-limits? I’d pitch a f**king fit too.

James’s little face scrunches up—like Damien from The Omen.

He grabs on to Kate’s shoulders with both hands and yells, “Mine. Is my mummy!”

I pull her a little closer to my side. “Technically, she belongs to both of us, buddy. We can share. But those?” I point to Kate’s breasts. “Those are mine.”

He ups the volume. “No. Is mine!”

Sigmund Freud would have a field day in this house.

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

“Is my mummy!”

Getting into a yelling match with a two-year-old is not a good idea. That’s a battle that cannot be won.

Kate pushes my chest. “Stop teasing him. And go shower—we’re gonna be late.”

I kiss her forehead. Then, behind her back, I point to myself and mouth to James, Mine.

He blows a raspberry at me. Smart-ass.

As I back out of the kitchen, Kate starts to sing. In that soft, flawless voice that still makes me weak in the knees.

And stiff in the crotch.

I know the song—“Jet Plane” by John Denver—but she changes the lyrics to fit the situation.

’Cause we’re leavin’ on a jet plane

We’ll be back on Sunday again

Oh, James, we love you so.

Kate rocks back and forth slowly, and James’s deep brown eyes turn to her alone. He looks up at her with complete adoration. Overwhelming worship. Total devotion.

It’s the same way I look at her. Every day.

I’m not a big fan of humility. But watching the two of them like this? It makes me feel humble. Fortunate. Like how Joseph must have felt seeing his wife hold baby Jesus. Just so f**king lucky to get to be a part of something so beautifully sacred.

We’re leavin’ on a jet plane

We’ll be back on Sunday again

Oh, James, we love you so.

I drag my eyes away and head for the shower.





Chapter 3


We get to my sister’s place a little after 7:00 A.M. The apartment is a madhouse—the sounds of yelling kids, talking adults, clattering coffee cups, and barking dogs fill the air.

Well . . . one barking dog. His name is Bear—he’s a Great Dane. I got him for Mackenzie last Christmas because Applejack the pony didn’t exactly work out as I’d planned. Despite some serious begging, pleading, and negotiating, the Bitch wouldn’t break down and agree to let the pony I bought Mackenzie for Christmas live with them. Her main reason was the Central Park West Homeowners Association.

If you’re not familiar with these types of organizations, I’ll fill you in. They’re the geriatric version of the gestapo—composed mostly of bitter, wrinkly old bags who lie in wait for someone to do something they don’t approve of.

Such as hang a gaudy wreath on the door or play music too loud . . . or convert a bedroom into a barnyard stall.

Instead of trying to buck the system and risk eviction procedures, Steven and Alexandra relocated Applejack to my parents’ place upstate—leaving my poor niece without a live-in pet. Which was utterly f**king unacceptable. Hence—Bear.

He’s awesome. And big. Sort of like a pony’s dwarf cousin.