Tied (Tangled, #4)(14)

But he’s gentle—great with kids—even though he has no idea how large he actually is. He’s always trying to climb into Alexandra’s purse or sit on Steven’s lap—which can make breathing difficult.

Kate and I walk into the living room with James on my shoulders, and Bear welcomes us with deep woofs and slobbering licks. We greet the parentals, and Kate heads into the kitchen with my mother—rattling off a list of instructions and unloading James’s paraphernalia for the overnight stay. I put my son on his feet and he waddles over to the corner where his cousin Thomas is quietly constructing a tower of blocks.

If Mackenzie is my sister Alexandra’s twin? Tommy-boy is all Steven. He’s a little underweight for his age. But long—lanky. His hair is dark, his eyes are blue and thoughtful. Thomas is easygoing. Laid-back. The perfect yin to my son’s Tasmanian-devil-like yang.

With a diabolical giggle, James obliterates Thomas’s tower. But he doesn’t complain. He just starts building another one. I wrestle with Bear a bit, until my sister walks in with a cup of hot coffee for me.

I take the cup and gesture toward Bear. “How’s the house-training going?” Bear has a weak bladder. And though it doesn’t detract from his appeal, he’s not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed.

“Fantastic—if the goal was to turn my nine-thousand-dollar Persian rug into his pissing ground.”

I glance at the rug in question. “He’s got good taste. That’s a fugly rug, Lexi. I’m thinking about pissing on it myself.”

“Funny.”

I sip my coffee. “I try.”

She leads me toward the adjoining dining room. “I talked to the wedding planner last night and finished the seating chart. Take a look.”

The wedding.

Okay—most guys would rather have their teeth pulled than have any involvement in the wedding planning. Sorry to break it to you, ladies, but we don’t give a shit about colors or centerpieces or the embossing style of the goddamn invitations. If we act as if we do, it’s only because we’re smart—and we’re trying to keep you off our backs.

As long as the bride looks good and those mini hot dogs are served during the cocktail hour? We’re there.

So in the beginning, I happily left all the details of the big day to Kate and my sister. But then I started hearing such words as low-key and small, intimate affair and nothing too ostentatious. And I had to step in.

Because when an Olympian wins the gold medal, do they have a small, intimate affair?

Of course not.

They throw a f**king ticker-tape parade.

Which is the least of what Kate deserves. Because she did what everyone—including the members of my immediate family—thought impossible. She bagged me. The grand prize—the unattainable—the megamillions jackpot.

That should be celebrated. In a huge way.

Plus, a woman’s wedding day is supposed to be special—unforgettable. She only gets one. This is particularly true in Kate’s case, because shortly after James was born, we had that whole discussion about what we would do if one of us kicked the bucket early. You’ve heard of that “It’s a far, far better thing I do” guy in A Tale of Two Cities? The one who sacrificed himself so the woman he loved could go on to live with another man?

Fucking pansy. He deserved to hang. I’m not him.

Sure, I want Kate to be happy—but I want her happy with me. Or no one at all. So if I bite the big one before her? She’s just gonna have to muddle through on her own.

Single.

Celibate.

Because if she hooks up with another guy? Has my son calling some loser Daddy?

I’ll haunt her. Forever. Like, The Grudge style.

You think that’s awful, don’t you? Selfish, possessive, egotistical?

And this surprises you why?

Anyway—back to the wedding. Once I took over the reins, things got jacked up a whole lot of notches—no expense spared, no detail overlooked. Alexandra and I work great together. Her hyperactive planning and organizational skills coupled with my micromanaging and determination for the perfect day have made a stupendous combination. We also have the assistance of Lauren Laforet, the most sought-after wedding planner in the city, making sure all our big plans become a reality.

Prince William and Kate can kiss my ass. Amateurs. We’ve got this wedding-of-the-century thing in the bag.

On the dining-room table sits a model of the Four Seasons ballroom, with dozens of miniature tables and hundreds of name-labeled chairs perfectly arranged.

I’m impressed. “This is amazing.”

She pushes a strand of blond hair behind her ear, contemplating her handiwork. “I know.”

I notice one table doesn’t look right. I’m about to comment, but a commotion in the living room signals a new arrival. I move to the doorway to see who’s here.

“Woof! Woooof!”

It’s Brangelina. Otherwise known as Matthew and Delores. Curious about the nickname? You’ll see.

“Get off me, beast!”

Bear has a real hard-on for Dee-Dee. Literally. He tries to violate her every chance he gets. Maybe he’s just horny. Maybe he likes how her ass smells. Maybe he instinctually senses that she’s a freak who’d be into bestiality—I don’t know. Whatever the reason?

Funniest f**king thing ever.