But thankfully, now it’s evening, and Noah just brought over enough Mangia’s pizza to feed a small army, along with his fluffy golden retriever Toby, who’s currently working the room with the shameless persistence of a politician during election season. The furry cutie has perfected the art of the pitiful stare, moving fromperson to person with his tail wagging and his brown eyes radiating the kind of cute that makes grown adults talk in baby voices. Namely me.
I’ll admit, I’ve given him more than a few bites of my pizza. And that also might explain why he’s currently seated in front of me with his eyes pinned on mine and his fluffy blond tail wagging with far too much hope.
“Lot Lot, that dog looks at you the exact same way Foxy does,” Carlotta muses with the kind of far-too-gleeful mischief that suggests she’s about to stir up trouble. Because she is. “Same adoring expression, same hopeful tail action, same shameless begging technique.”
“Carlotta,” I warn, but she’s already warming to her theme.
“I’m just saying, there’s a definite pattern here,” she continues with mock innocence. “First, Foxy starts bringing pizza over every night, then his dog starts camping out at your feet. Pretty soon, Toby’s going to be leaving flowers on your doorstep and writing you love poems. At least the dog has better timing than Foxy. The cute pooch waits until dinner to start the pathetic staring routine.”
“Hey!” Noah protests through a grin. “My timing is impeccable.”
“Your timing is desperate,” Carlotta corrects. “Though I have to admit, using your dog as a wingman is actually pretty clever.”
Toby chooses that moment to rest his chin on my knee and give me the most soulful look in canine history.
Carlotta belts out a laugh. “That’s exactly the look Foxy gives you when he wants something. It’s like they’ve been rehearsing together. The difference is that the pooch only begs for food. Foxy begs for whatever you’re in the mood to offer.”
“And again, my timing is impeccable. We have Lyla Nell, don’t we?”
“I can’t argue with that,” I tell him, and we share a quick high-five.
Just then, Everett walks in and sets down his briefcase with the satisfied sigh of a judge who’s managed to survive another day of dispensing justice without throttling anyone. I hope.
“Hello, beautiful,” he says, his voice carrying that low, intimate tone that still makes my knees go weak after all this time. “How’s the most gorgeous baker in Vermont doing this evening?”
“I’m well. How are you?” Noah bats his lashes at Everett and garners a growl from him.
Everett kisses me hello—not just a quick peck, but the kind of kiss that reminds me exactly why I married this mantwice. His hand settles possessively on my waist as he pulls back just enough to look into my eyes.
“Mmm, you taste like pizza and trouble,” he murmurs against my lips. “My two favorite things.”
“Just pizza,” I manage to say, though my brain has temporarily short-circuited from the combination of his touch and that ridiculously sexy voice he uses when he’s being deliberately charming. Come to think of it, it’s his everyday voice that he uses both in and out of the courtroom, and more importantly, in and out of the bedroom.
“Just pizza?” He hikes a brow my way. “Somehow I doubt that,” he says with the hint of a knowing smile that suggests he’s fully aware of the effect he’s having on me. And it’s the exact kind of trouble we’re both looking for.
And I’m reminded once again that my medical clearance to resume full marital relations is tantalizingly close to the finish line. Not that we haven’t been engaging in some creative hanky-panky—okay,a lotof creative hanky-panky—but what else are we supposed to do? Heaven knows we’re not allowed to sleep around here.
“Hey, boys.” Everett nods to Ozzy and Corbin, who are still secured in their baby swings, cooing with the kind of delight that suggests they’re either genuinely happy or plotting their next milk heist. They rock gently back and forth, making adorable gurgling sounds that almost make up for the fact that they treat three A.M. like happy hour. “Lyla Nell, Evie, Carlotta,” Everett says their names with a warm greeting.
“Daddy, look at me!” Lyla Nell has both Pancake and Waffles on what appear to be rhinestone leashes that sparkle under the great room’s chandelier. The white fluffy cats look about as thrilled with this situation as you’d expect—which is to say they’re plotting revenge with the cold calculation of furry sociopaths.
“Wow, those are cool leashes, Mom,” Evie says, crouching down toget a better look at the bedazzled cat restraints. “Where did you get them?”
I blink at the unfamiliar sparkling accessories. “I definitely didn’t purchase them,” I’m quick to say. I glance at the two fathers among us. “One of you must have.”
Noah and Everett exchange a look that clearly communicates their complete innocence in the matter of rhinestone pet accessories.
“Don’t look at me,” Noah says, holding up his hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t touch those things with a ten-foot pole.”
“Make that a twenty-foot pole,” Everett adds. “I’m a judge. I sentence criminals. I do not coordinate with bedazzled pet restraints.”
Carlotta trots over to investigate with the purposeful stride of a detective who’s about to crack the case of the century, and her eyes light up when she gets a good gander at them.
“Hey, those are MY leashes!” she announces with more than a touch of pride. “Looks like some little yipper has been sneaking into my toy box!”
And there it is. The moment every parent dreads—discovering that your toddler has been rummaging through their grandmother’s collection of adult recreational equipment. I’m pretty sure this exact scenario isn’t covered in any parenting manual I’ve ever read, though it probably should be filed under “Conversations You Never Thought You’d Have” right next to “Why We Don’t Put Forks in Electrical Outlets.”
A collective groan rides around the room and can probably be heard in Canada.
