Page 42

"If you ever say the word creampie in front of me again, Trace will take that number one spot," Sumner growls, stepping out of the bathroom.

Colston gasps. “So you admit I’m number one.”

Sumner shakes his head. “I didn’t say that.”

Then he steps right into my space, his large hand wrapping around my stomach to smoothly but firmly peel me away from his best friend and tuck me against his own side. He shoots Colston a warning look that practically screams don’t touch, but a fond, genuine smile is fighting its way onto his mouth.

Colston holds his hands up in surrender, completely unbothered by Sumner's territorial alpha-ness. "Alright, alright. Message received. But speaking of cream-filled..." He winks at me and taps his phone screen. "I need sugar to process the fact that I'm officially about to be the coolest uncle on the planet. Are we doing a dozen or two?"

"Two," Sumner and I say at the exact same time.

Colston points his phone at us. "Freaky mind-reader shit. I love it. Go sit down. I'm ordering."

He waves us toward the kitchen. I walk over and hop up onto one of the barstools. My legs are a little shaky from the adrenaline. Sumner pulls up the stool right next to mine, his thigh pressing flush against my knee. A swarm of butterflies that feel like they’re made of Pop Rocks immediately takes flight in my stomach the second he touches me.

"Don't forget the raspberry-filled," I tell Colston as he taps on his screen.

"Don’t insult me. And I’m adding a half-dozen with sprinkles, too. We're celebrating. Like you said, you gotta have sprinkles to celebrate." Colston looks up from his phone and points it at Sumner. "What about you, Shamu? You want your usual plain glazed or are we getting crazy today with a maple bar?"

I blink, turning to look at Colston. "Wait. Shamu?"

Colston’s face completely lights up. "Oh my god. He hasn't told you?"

Sumner drops his face into his hands. "Don't."

"Absolutely do," I say, leaning forward on the counter. "Tell me everything."

"Okay, so," Colston says, waving a hand to brush Sumner off. "His dad was Navy, right? Which means they lived in San Diego for a bit. Dad takes little toddler Sumner to SeaWorld, and they snap this picture together by the killer whale tank. Turns out the big guy here is secretly a huge softie, because he keeps this tiny, beat-up photo in his wallet for years.”

Sumner groans, but Colston ignores him and keeps going.

“Cut to flight school. He drops his wallet in the locker room, the picture falls out onto the floor, and the whole squadron gets an eyeful of little Sumner Wells looking absolutely stoked while a giant orca breaches in the background." Colston smirks. "He's been Shamu ever since."

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. I turn to Sumner, who’s glaring at his best friend. "That is the cutest thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life."

"No, it’s not," Sumner grumbles. “It’s embarrassing.”

"I expect to see this picture later," I tell him before turning back to Colston. "Okay, sorry, back to the donuts."

"Right. So what's your order, Shamu?" Colston asks, picking his phone back up.

Sumner leans his muscular forearms on the granite counter. "I don't want any."

I stare at him. "What do you mean you don't want any? We're getting two dozen."

"I don't really like donuts," he says, completely serious, like he isn't some sort of alien in a human skin suit for this hottest of hot takes.

The kitchen goes silent.

I slowly turn my head to look at Colston. Colston looks at me, his eyes wide with shared horror.

"I'm sorry," I say, looking back at Sumner. "Did you just say you don't like donuts?"

"They're basically just fried cake," Sumner says. "They're too sweet. It's a terrible breakfast food."

"What the fuck," Colston mutters, shaking his head. "I’m trying to pretend I don’t hear it, but every time he says it, a little piece of my soul dies."

"Are you a psychopath?" I ask, seriously reconsidering if I’ve made a horrible mistake procreating with this man. "Who doesn't like fried cake?"