“Not unless shit’s about to blow up. And tell no one.”
A slow grin tugs at his mouth. “Roger that.”
He pulls away, and I go inside.
An explosion of laughter comes from somewhere around the kitchen.
Which tells me two things. First, everyone’s alive. And, second, they haven’t missed me at all.
“I’m home,” I call out, dropping my keys into the bowl by the door.
Nothing.
A second later, everyone is barreling into me at lightning speed. The poster was right. Love collides.
Connor wraps me in a tight but distinctly teen-bro hug. Oliver follows, arms locked around my waist like he’s testing whether a WWE body slam is possible. I pretend to wobble.
And then Snooki barrels in, launches herself at me, and shrieks, “We have a surprise!”
Thankfully, no one comments on my day-old clothes.
“A surprise?” I ask, instinctively wary. I hate surprises. “I love surprises,” I add quickly, smiling widely.
Mrs. D. peeks out from the kitchen. “Hope you’re hungry. The options were us cooking for you or donuts from Hannah’s new shop.”
“Didn’t her glazed donuts with candied bacon sprinkles just go viral?” I ask, because I’m dying to try one.
“Yes,” she says brightly. “But the kids wanted to cook.”
Dear God. Why?
When my kids cook, the food is barely edible. You can’t just add hot sauce and marshmallows to things and call it creativity.
As I keep telling them, food should not double as a dare.
I can only pray Mrs. D. intervened.
Frequently.
Aggressively.
“I gave them free rein,” she sings.
That answers that. And my kitchen will probably be a disaster zone.
Before Snook can swan dive from my arms, I set her down. Six hands immediately descend, steering me toward my bedroom like this is a coordinated extraction.
They’re all shouting at once.
“We’re almost done.”
“You can’t look.”
“No peeking.”
I lift my hands in surrender. “All right, all right. I’m going.”
I brace myself for mystery meat, kale, and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.
