And too damn perfect.
Chapter 30
JULIA
The small and out-of-season pumpkin spiced latte scented candle burning five feet away from me doesn’t do much to take way from – or add to – the yeasty smell of stale beer permeating the air around me.
My shoulders bounce side to side with the sway of my body, my credit card tapping in time against the bar’s surface while the man behind it flips the switch on a blender to whir together ice and tequila. The engine on our machine at home would probably short circuit and shroud the entire kitchen in smoke if I tried to do it myself.
I take the bright green concoction as it slides across the bar top, moving my hips playfully with a point to Aislin. She’s standing on a small stage with a television behind her, clutching a microphone in her hand while she shout-sings her heart out to some old country song that I’ve never heard before.
Or maybe it just sounds like I’ve never heard it because I’ve never listed to the drunken, shouted version of it.
As I drop into the booth assigned to our group, the song reaches its chorus, and all of us join in with our own shouted and off-key lyrics. Aislin’s fist flies into the air as she holds a notethrough laughter that begs to leave her, but she won’t allow the opportunity for it to do so until she’s finished her song.
When the country queen finally plops next to me, her arms drape around my middle, her head contentedly resting on my shoulder.
“Don’t throw up on me,” I warn.
Pulling away from me with horror etched into her features and a hand sliding onto the bare skin of my thigh, she gasps.
“I don’t throw up,” she insists, her brow stitching together at the middle.
With a kiss to her forehead, I pretend away the very vivid memory of pulling her hair back on the night of the birthday party that ultimately changed the course of my life.
A few too many rounds of shots make their way through our table before we find ourselves piling into poor sober Tia’s minivan, every one of us stumbling over our own two feet as we plop into our seats to make our way home.
As we approach my driveway, I pull off my high heels in the hope that a lack of clacking on the concrete outside will keep my feet from bothering my husbands, but as I slowly climb toward the house, the front door opens widely.
My husband stands in the doorway, one hand on his hip, the other braced next to his head as he holds the frame of the door. A smirk tugs at the side of his mouth as he scans me head to toe.
“You,” he says playfully, “are drunk.”
With a kiss to my forehead and an arm hooking around my waist to guide me inside, he calls up to Connor. As he makes his way down the stairs, tying the drawstring to a pair of sleep pants, I’m reminded of just how long we’ve known each other when a knowing smile crosses his features as Tripp helps me to settle onto the couch.
Trilling meows flood the room as Drumstick leaps onto my lap with a swish of his tail. I coo at him, scratching my fingersagainst his soft and freshly-washed cheeks as Tripp makes his way to the refrigerator, and Connor drops onto the couch to pull the two of us into his lap.
Within minutes, which drag on in my efforts to prop open eyelids that demand to slam shut for the rest of the night, a plate is rested onto my lap as my husband plops onto the cushion next to me, reaching for my feet to pull them over his legs. His hands massage into the soles of my feet while Connor’s fingers gently work through the lengths of my hair, the savory taste of ham and cheese melting on my tongue while I munch on the small sandwiches served to me.
“I have the best boys,” I quietly slur into the soft bread resting against my lips. “Four beautiful boys…” My eyebrow quirks as I look in Koda’s direction. “Only one of them, terribly furry.”
My finger presses to each of their noses with a‘boop,’forcing Connor’s chest to bounce against my back as he lets out a laugh.
I don’t drink very often, and I get drunk like this even less often than that. I’ll regret it tomorrow, and I know that; but with one of my boys dropping sweet kisses onto my forehead and the other rubbing the heels of his palms into the soles of my feet, I can’t care enough to think about morning.
I’m not sure how or when they cart me up the stairs and into our bedroom, but it feels like I blink before I’m wearing a cozy set of pajamas and my hair is pulled up into a claw clip. Not very well, but still probably better than I’d be able to manage on my own, right now.
My body sways as I move to climb into the middle space of the bed, but I’m stopped by strong hands gripping onto my arms.
“No, you sleep here,” Connor tells me as he guides my body toward the side of the bed which has become his typical place. “If you throw up, Tripp’s gonna try to help you, and I’ll wind up cleaning upbothof your vomit.”
“I’m a sympathetic puker!” Tripp calls from the bathroom. “I can’t help it, dick!”
Snorting into my hand with a giggle, I lower my voice conspiratorially. “I worried about that with—”
My words stop, the smile dropping from my face, and Connor’s lips pull into a tight line. His hand moves behind me to rest between my shoulder blades as he uses his head to gesture toward the mattress.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “Sleep off those last five shooters.”
