48. Dominic #2
“He belongs to the Kingsleys,” I announce, pointing a finger at my father. “And if he throws up on my reclaimed hardwood, I’m billing you for the refinishing.”
“He won’t throw up,” David says, stepping up to shake my hand. “But he will absolutely con your dad out of a pound of center-cut loin. Good to see you, Dom.”
“You too, counselor.” I pull him in for a quick back-pat, then kiss Nora’s cheek.
Before I can greet the rest of my newly expanded circus, a tug on my jacket sleeve demands my attention. I look down to find Michaela staring up at me, her tiny hands gripping the handle of her miniature briefcase with white-knuckled determination.
“Uncle Dominic,” she says, her voice deadly serious. “I brought my paperwork.”
I crouch down to her eye level, instantly matching her intensity. “Excellent. I hope you remembered the indemnification clauses. We’re dealing with a lot of rogue variables.”
“Daddy helped me draft them,” she whispers, popping the clasps. She pulls out a stack of hand-drawn documents. “This one says I’m not responsible if their dogs eat my snacks.”
“Ironclad,” I confirm, tapping the paper. “A flawless legal perimeter.”
“Speaking of snacks,” Jenna’s voice floats over my shoulder, crisp and commanding.
She steps beside me, clipboard resting against her hip as she addresses the room at large.
“As a reminder, this is a strictly nut-free zone. I have personally audited the caterers, but if any of you brought outside contraband containing cashews specifically, surrender it now or I will have you escorted off the premises.”
“She’s not joking,” David tells the room, giving Jenna a look of profound, exhausted gratitude. “Thank you, Jenna.”
“Risk mitigation,” Jenna repeats, winking at him. She reaches down to smooth Michaela’s hair. “Your snacks are secure, my young entrepreneur. Go show Uncle Logan your briefcase. He’s currently looking for an excuse not to talk to my mother about her neighborhood association.”
“I’m going to tell him all about my dog-walking cooperative.” Michaela marches off toward Logan, who is backed against the credenza, looking like he’s assessing the framework of the nearest window.
I stand up, slipping my arm around Jenna’s waist. The sheer volume of the main floor is staggering.
Dustin is already bellowing about Rainbow Road.
Bennett is arguing with a caterer about the optimal temperature for pouring the Bordeaux he brought.
Ma Pemberton has somehow cornered Caleb, who looks entirely too thrilled to be receiving a lecture on Tupperware maintenance.
“You did this,” I murmur in Jenna’s ear, breathing in the intoxicating scent of her bergamot perfume. “You invited the chaos in.”
“I organized the chaos,” she corrects, leaning her weight against me. Her hazel eyes sweep the room, tracking the beautiful, noisy collision of our two worlds. “There’s a difference.”
“It’s a masterpiece,” I admit, my thumb stroking the curve of her hip through the emerald silk. “But if your mother actually stabs one of the waitstaff with a fork over the manicotti, I’m letting David and Caleb handle the defense.”
Jenna laughs, the sound vibrating against my chest, warm and completely uninhibited. “Deal. But only if we get to livestream the court proceedings.”
I pull her closer, burying my smile in her dark hair, letting the roar of the factory wash over us.
“Well, this is adorable,” Roz says, interrupting the moment as she makes her way into the living area with her husband in tow.
“Don’t encourage me, Roz,” I warn, grinning as I step out of the embrace just enough to shake her husband’s hand. “I’m already insufferable.”
Before Roz can fire back a retort, the heavy front door swings open yet again, breaching the perimeter with a fresh wave of high-decibel energy.
Miranda bursts into the foyer, dragging her husband, Rob, by the hand.
Their two kids, Amelia and Angus, instantly detach from their parents and sprint toward the kitchen like heat-seeking missiles.
“Jenna!” Miranda shrieks, abandoning her husband entirely. She practically tackles my wife, wrapping her in a bone-crushing hug. “Oh my God, you’re really here! I am so happy my bestie came back home. I was absolutely distraught without you.”
Jenna laughs, returning the embrace with a warmth that makes my chest tight. “Did you even realize I was gone?”
Miranda gasps, throwing a manicured hand over her heart in a display of theatrical offense.
“Jenna Pemberton-Cruz! How could you even ask that?” She holds the dramatic, wide-eyed pose for exactly three seconds before her face falls into a sheepish, unapologetic grin.
“OK, fine. I had absolutely zero idea you were in Queens until Serena mentioned you were back. But let me tell you, the retroactive devastation I felt? Crippling. I was retroactively inconsolable.”
Jenna’s lips twitch, her dry wit firmly intact. “Your delayed mourning is noted and appreciated, Miranda. Thank you for your service.”
“Anytime,” Miranda chirps, already scanning the room for the bar. Rob shoots me a commiserating look as they pass, trailing his chaotic offspring.
I slide my arm back around Jenna’s waist, pulling her against my side. The noise level in the loft spikes again as Dustin bellows from the living area.
“MICHAELA! YOU’RE ANNIHILATING US!”
I glance over Jenna’s shoulder.
Logan is sitting cross-legged on the rug beside my towering brother, both of them hunched over controllers. Michaela sits between them with her miniature briefcase abandoned at her feet and the expression of a tiny warlord.
Her kart shoots across the finish line in first place.
Logan pushes his glasses up his nose. “I don’t think she should be allowed to play.”
Michaela throws her head back and cackles like the little evil genius she is.
“Again!” she demands.
Dustin collapses backward onto the rug. Hannah signs something that I think includes the word terrifying, but it’s hard to tell because she’s laughing so hard her hands wobble.
“She says you’re terrifying,” Dustin translates.
Michaela beams. “Thank you.”
Jenna leans into me. “Neither of them is going to recover from this.”
“Michaela’s ruthless,” I agree. “I taught her everything she knows.”
Jenna gives me a look. “You taught Michaela how to cheat at cards.”
“I’ve been an important influence.”
Across the room, my mother-in-law is currently wielding a wooden spoon at Caleb. “Tupperware is an investment, Kingsley. You don’t put the lids in the bottom rack of the dishwasher. That’s how they warp. Do you want warped seals? Because that’s how you get dry ziti.”
Caleb, a man who regularly dismantles witnesses in federal court, is nodding with absolute, terrified reverence. “Bottom rack is a hazard. Understood, Mrs. Pemberton.”
“Should we save him?” I ask, gesturing toward the hostage situation with my chin.
Jenna considers this, her eyes gleaming with wicked amusement. “Give it another five minutes. It builds character.”
“You know,” I murmur, lowering my voice so it’s just for her.
I brush my thumb over the curve of her hip, feeling the friction of the emerald silk.
“Your meticulously crafted run-of-show says dinner is at seven. But it doesn’t explicitly specify what the hosts are required to do between now and then. ”
Jenna tilts her head, her lips curving into a slow, knowing smile. “Are you looking for a loophole in my itinerary, Cruz?”
“I’m just saying, the walk-in pantry is completely soundproof.”
“The pantry is currently full of highly stressed caterers,” she counters smoothly.
“The coat closet, then.”
She laughs, a soft, breathy sound that bypasses my brain and goes straight to my groin. She reaches up, her fingers grazing the lapel of my maroon jacket, her touch a silent promise. “Patience, partner. Let’s feed the masses first. Then you can show me exactly how ruthless you are.”
“I don’t have nearly that much patience,” I murmur, sliding my hand from her waist to the curve of her spine.
I dip my head and capture her mouth and taste the expensive champagne on her tongue, feeling the quiet, immediate hum of her response as she leans entirely into my space, the rigid edge of her clipboard pressing flush against my chest. Right here, in the middle of a room generating a hundred decibels of unmitigated chaos, she kisses me back like we are the only two people on the grid.
When I finally pull back, her lipstick is somehow still perfectly intact, though her breath is catching in her throat. “Just a deposit,” I murmur, smoothing a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear. “The balance is due at midnight.”
She flashes me a look that could melt steel, then steps back into her role as the maestro of this circus, checking her clipboard and moving off to intercept my father before he can feed the Kingsley dog an entire pork tenderloin.
I stay where I am for a minute, leaning against the exposed brick wall, and just watch.
A year ago, I would have described happiness like a perfectly managed portfolio: high yield, minimal risk, every variable under control.
I look around the room.
My father is feeding pork to a dog that isn’t his. Ma Pemberton is lecturing Caleb about Tupperware. Dustin and Logan are being annihilated by a nine-year-old at Mario Kart. Every person I love is here, making noise and taking up space.
And in the center of it all is Jenna—my brilliant, impossible wife—clipboard in hand, smiling as she makes room for every one of us.
Happiness, it turns out, is any room with her at the center of it.
Jenna catches me watching her.
“Mr. Pemberton-Cruz,” she calls. “Are you planning to help, or have you entered decorative husband mode?”
I push away from the wall, grinning.
“Coming, partner.”