She hustles past me to a side door, and the back door bangs in its frame as it shuts behind her.
“Sorry,” she calls. “Forgot to catch that.”
“He’s here?” Hudson says inside. “Can I go torment him?”
“Fine,” Bea says. “But he’s welcome to torment you right back.”
Daphne hands me a water bottle and then points to a folding chair at the head of the table that doesnotgive me a view of both the grill and my boys.
“Is this the interrogation chair?” I ask her.
“Yep.”
The back door bangs again.
Hudson’s joined us.
“I get to go first,” he says to her.
“No, you don’t.”
“He who sleeps on the couch is crankiest, and the crankiest deserves the little joys,” he replies.
“Got a spare bedroom here,” Ryker says from the ground behind me.
I don’t jump in surprise, but only barely.
Daphne tosses a water bottle to Pinky, who’s settled in a folding chair in the corner of the deck and is watching all of us.
Then she looks at me.
I oblige the silent demand and take a seat.
“So, Simon, are you the marrying type?” Daphne asks while Ryker circles the deck to join us.
“Absolutely not.” It’s less me answering, and more years of training answering for me.
“And is Bea aware of that?”
“Bea prefers it that way,” Bea calls from the kitchen.
“When’s the last time you were tested for STIs?” Ryker hovers close enough to be mildly intimidating but far enough away to not provoke Pinky into telling him to back up.
“Oh my god, are you serious?” Bea yells.
“I’m glad she lacked the foresight to see why volunteering to make Dad’s risotto was a bad idea,” Hudson stage-whispers to Daphne. “It’s nice to have her occupied in the kitchen.”
“I had my annual exam two months ago, and I’m fit as a fiddle without any detectable traces of infection, sexually transmitted or otherwise,” I tell Ryker.
“Gonna need to see that paperwork,” he replies.
Pinky growls.
“He says he’s clear, Bea,” Hudson calls.
“Clear of what?” Charlie calls from the yard.
I look at Hudson. “Oh, do go on. You have such strong opinions about what my children should and shouldn’t know.”
