“Relax, the toy company won’t want bad publicity, either.”
“I’m counting on it.”
He laughs. “I have to go to work. Call me anytime you need more advice, ya bloody wank-ah.”
“Good talkin’ with you. Tell Callie we’ll get together soon.” Talking to my best friend always puts me in a better mood. If he can figure it out, so can I.
My wife knocks on the bathroom door. “Sebs? You in there?”
“Yup. Be right out.” I flush but as I exit, she catches me putting my phone in my back pocket and crosses her arms.
“Were you hiding?” When her brows crease, she’s so damn cute, I have to grin.
“Moi?” I fan my face and use my falsetto which earns me a giggle.
“I just wanted to tell you. Joey’s home and Kimmy went downstairs.” At the sound of our sweet little niece belting out a song her face turns red. “Oh shit.”
My mouth drops open. “Is she singing penis-weenis?”
“Never mind. Long story. More importantly, who were you talking to?” Her change of subject almost gives me whiplash, but I’m a former SEAL, thus prepared.
“Lochlan. He says we have BCS.” My brows lift.I’ll see your song and raise you three random initials.
After tossing a blanket over the hissing cats, one arm scoops up Mikey while the other pulls out a highchair. “Is it catching?”
“No, but if not addressed, it could be deadly.” Death by blue balls is probably more common than people know.Pulling open the tray, I help direct his kicking legs into the proper slot.
Our son secure, she pours coffee, sits at the glass table, then types BCS into her laptop. “Hmm. Brooklyn Community Services? BCS tractors? BCS National Championship? I’m afraid you need to be more specific.”
“Busy Couple Syndrome.” Hungry, I pull an egg carton, bread, and milk out of the fridge.
She clicks some more keys and glances at me. “Nope. There’s no reference to that except a twenty-year-old book called ‘The Supercouple Syndrome’. I think Lucky made it up. I bet it’s an Aussie thing.”
“Babe. It doesn’t matter. He’s right. We need some alone time.” Using a fork, I mix in vanilla and cinnamon.
She waits until I plop my soggy toast into a fry pan before grabbing my sweatshirt by the neck. Then, she pushes my back to the refrigerator and devours my mouth with kisses. I’m about to tear her shirt off until I remember our kid is watching.
Sighing, I release her. “Tonight, babe, and heads up, nobody gets to play the too-tired card.”
“I promise to be wide awake and to only lay down deuces wild.” She flips the French toast, grinds her lower body into my swollen cock, and moans. “How about we leave the kid in the highchair and go into the bedroom for five minutes.”
“Remember the last time we tried?”
“You mean the time he loosened his tray, crawled onto the table, and we found him covered in syrup? This is your fault, you know. He takes after you.” She ruffles our toddler’s head, cuts his breakfast into one-inch squares, and places a plate in front of him.
I dunk four more slices into the mixture and add them to the pan. “Nope. His appetite for trouble is all you.”
“How about we eat and discuss it on the subway? I called Slate. He’s expecting us in an hour.”
“Who’s watching Mikey?” As the bread browns, Sam shrugs, opens a closet door, and pulls out a miniature snowsuit.
“He’s coming with us. I tried everyone and they’re all busy. We’ll put him in the kid carrier. He loves it.”
When she finishes packing, I place a plate on the table and point.
“Sit. Eat.” Chewing, I have second thoughts about the subway. “Maybe I should drive?”
“Rush hour? Are you nuts? No way. We’ll be fine.” Her confident tone does nothing to dismiss my fears.
