“Ask your mother. I’m worried about my girl’s parts,” Sarah says.
Caleb groans, catching Sarah’s attention from across the counter.
“What?” Sarah asks, looking between the men.
“My mom passed away when I was really young,” Bo says without emotion, pulling out a sleeve of crackers. “Ooh these are my favourite.” He rips them open with vigour and takes a loud bite, nodding as he chews, as if he’s listening to his favourite song.
Who has a favourite cracker?
“Sorry.” Sarah winces.
“No big deal.” Bo smiles at her, swallowing. “Thanks again for all of this. And for letting me crash game night.” He turns to Caleb. “You too, man.”
“You’re welcome,” Caleb says as Sarah walks around the island toward him, placing her arm around his back. “We like to keep in touch witheverycouple that conceives a baby in our home.”
“Yes, it’s a tradition of ours,” Sarah adds.
“I didn’t realise this was such a common occurrence. Is there a support group? An online forum?” Bo asks.
“Yes, they meet here Tuesdays at eleven,” Sarah replies. “Light refreshments are served.”
“Wonderful. Count us in,” Bo says, pulling out the last item. “Whoa,” he chuckles, “Idon’tthink this is for me.”
I turn my attention to the box in his hand and immediately swat it away. The second the box hits the kitchen floor, I kick it instinctively. Hard enough that it soars across the room, through the kitchen’s entrance, and down the hallway. Bo stays, slightly red-faced, looking at his feet and biting his lip.
“Sarah Abilene Linwood,” I say, grinding my jaw.You promised no funny business,I say telepathically, flaring my eyes at her.
She clasps both hands in front of her mouth, but it does nothing to quell her laughter. “Okay, in my defence, I started this as a present just foryou, and Imayhave forgottenthatwas in there.”
Caleb eyes me impishly as he slinks off his stool and creeps toward the hallway. I glare at him as he tiptoes backward, looking like a cartoon villain.
I don’t have the energy to attempt to get to the box first, so I ignore the giggles being shared between mypreviousbest friend and the traitorous father-to-be and begin sorting our gift into two neat piles. Items for Bo on the right, items for me on the left.
“The Clit-Stim 9000…” Caleb strolls back into the kitchen, slapping the box against his palm. “Do we have this one?” he asks his wife, who’s at least looking atouchguilty under her thin-lipped smile.
“They had to makenineversions?” Bo asks.
“It must have been made by a man,” I say, dropping a book titledFirst-Time Dadonto his pile with a not-so-subtlethud, “if it took them nine tries to figure out how to properly please a woman.”
Bo’s tongue pushes against the side of his cheek as he nods, an arrogant gleam in his eye returning. “Not all men need nine chances, if I remember correctly.” He moves the chocolates that I had allocated to his pile back to mine, leaning closer. “Some of us only needed one,” he whispers.
He then absolutely destroys the tension he began pulling like a corset around my throat by biting down on his cracker in a purposefully aggressive manner, spinning on his heel toward Caleb, and throwing a hand up.
“Toss it,” Bo commands.
Caleb throws the box, and Bo catches it, palming it in one hand. “Here,” he says, placing it next to my pile.
“My hero,” I say dryly.
“You can keep all of it,” Bo says, looking at our piles. “Well, maybe I’ll keep the book and the”—he holds up the black T-shirt with white writing on it, wearing a lopsided smirk—“Call me Daddyshirt.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
“Sarah is a pervert,” I say.
“I heard that!” She swipes a cracker from Bo’s open tray as she walks by.
I glare at her as she and Caleb begin uncorking a bottle of wine together. “Keep your half,” I say to Bo. “I distributed it fairly.”
“Butthis,” he points between us, “isn’t particularly fair either. From where I’m standing, you’re doing all the work. I’m like the kid who asks to see the group project the day before the presentation.”
