61. Rico #2
The second we step inside, I’m hit with a cacophony of noise and perfume so potent it should come with a warning label. The stench of overpriced floral musk and too much cologne mingles with the overwhelming hum of a hundred conversations overlapping like a poorly mixed track.
I’m not sure if I should be grateful for the constant drone—because at least it keeps me from spiraling into a get me the fuck out of here meltdown—or if I should start mentally drafting my will because this level of social interaction has to be lethal.
Allie, of course, is thriving.
“You made it!”
Violet materializes in front of us, wrapped in a deep purple gown that molds around her already noticeable baby bump, her face glowing in that infuriating way pregnant women do. And I feel my jaw lock.
That should be my wife.
Not wearing a damn siren red dress that makes every man within a ten-foot radius risk whiplash.
No. She should stand here with my kid inside her, making it painfully obvious to every suit-wearing, smug-smiling bastard in this room that she’s claimed.
That she’s mine. That looking at her the way they are is not in their best interest if they want to keep their hands intact.
Or eyes. Or limbs. I'm not picky really.
I clench my fists so hard my knuckles scream.
A server strolls by with a tray of champagne, and I snatch one off for Allie before asking for a scotch—neat. The drink that says don’t talk to me unless you want a death stare in return.
“You look so beautiful.” My wife’s voice is a soft, affectionate coo as she reaches out to rub Violet’s belly.
Violet, in turn, beams like an actual fucking saint. Her stomach is still small, but considering there’s another set of twins brewing, it won’t stay that way for long.
God help my brother and what’s left of his sanity.
Triplets nearly ended him. Now he’s headed on the path to five kids.
That man needs therapy. Ideally, a vasectomy.
And speaking of Alex, he’s in full-blown territorial mode.
His arm wraps tightly around Violet, his entire body angled as if he’s ready to take out any poor soul who dares breathe in her direction. Alex is possessive on a normal day. When Violet’s pregnant? He’s one step away from snapping at people like a feral wolf.
“You are too sweet,” Violet says, sipping her sparkling water, before her attention shifts directly to my wife.
And then it happens.
Her hand pats Allie’s—very flat—stomach.
“You’ll be sporting one of these soon enough, right?” She winks at me.
I sure as shit am trying every day over here.
It’s incredible, really. Dom and Alex sneeze in their wives' general direction and—boom—knocked up.
Meanwhile, I have a gorgeous, willing wife, plenty of…effort being put into the process, and still—nothing.
Maybe I should just stare at her womb and will it to take a baby. Or burn through all the absurd AI-generated fertility advice Google keeps shoving at me.
Because clearly, whatever I’m doing? Not working.
“Hey, you two.”
Sienna glides over, looking ethereal in some floaty gown, Dom’s arm locked around her. She barely gets free before wrapping my wife in a hug and patting my arm.
Patting.
My fucking arm.
A casual touch—something most people wouldn’t care about.
Except, I hate being touched.
And my entire family knows this.
They never touch me.
They never try.
Except for her—the woman who not only ignores my personal space but actively defies it.
“Do you mind if I steal your wife for just a minute?” Sienna asks sweetly, making a minuscule gap between her thumb and index finger like this temporary abandonment won’t result in my imminent demise.
Yes. Yes, I mind.
Very much.
In fact, I need her here in case I have to thrust her in front of some overly chatty stranger and use her as a human shield.
I am not above that.
Unfortunately, my wife and I do not share the same telepathic superpowers my brothers have with their wives. No, those men can have entire conversations without speaking. Allie and I? We’re over here playing two separate games—her a romantic comedy, me a psychological thriller.
Worse, judging by the wicked smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, she knows exactly what she’s doing.
And she’s enjoying it.
“So, I see you were let out of the doghouse long enough to grace us with your presence?”
I turn to Violet, who is batting her lashes with a saccharine amusement that makes men question whether they’re about to be complimented or verbally annihilated.
I don’t talk to her much—she’s definitely closer to Dom than to me—but I respect her.
She took my overbearing, control-freak of a brother and turn him into something that resembles a functional human being.
She also gave me three incredible nephews and, more importantly, keeps my brother in check.
There’s not a single flaw I can pin on her, except that she voluntarily married my older brother. But, hey, nobody’s perfect.
“Funny.” I pluck a scotch off a passing server’s tray before they even have the chance to offer it. Hope it wasn’t meant for someone important. I need the alcohol more than they do and the one that scurried off with my order is nowhere in sight.
Violet grins. “Has she forgiven you yet?”
Considering the way my wife moans my name every night like it’s her new favorite prayer, I’d say yes.
I nod.
Violet tilts her head, her perfectly arched brows lifting. “Why did you miss it anyway?”
Alex—her personal human shield—presses a kiss to her forehead before I can answer. “I told you, babe. He fell asleep.”
“I know that. I was there. But how do you fall asleep and miss your wife’s event?”
I know I’m not like my brothers. I don’t do grand romantic gestures. I don’t bring flowers home or plan surprise dates. But even I recognize that falling asleep during a significant moment in my wife’s career is something only a special brand of jackass pulls off.
Not that I did it on purpose.
If anyone’s to blame, it’s the low-budget vigilante hacker who has made it his life’s mission to ruin mine.
Maybe he should be in the doghouse.
I shrug. “Didn’t mean to. It happened. It’s done. It’s history.”
Violet just stares.
“What?”
She blinks. “Do you realize this is the most you’ve ever spoken to me in your entire life?”
I don’t miss Alex poorly disguising his laugh with a cough.
I open my mouth to refute her claim—because surely I’ve spoken to my sister-in-law more than this—but stop short.
Do I talk to her?
I must.
Right?
I do some rapid mental math, skimming through past interactions. Surely, I’ve racked up at least a few hours of conversation over the years.
I come up empty.
Shit.
“Doubtful,” I say, my voice void of conviction.
“Truthful.” Violet counters smoothly.
Allie is sassy, but Violet is the undisputed queen of sass. She doesn’t hesitate. She doesn’t blink. She just fires off verbal bullets and watches you reload while she preps another round.
Add pregnancy hormones into the mix?
Yeah. You don’t fight that battle. You surrender.
“And your point?” I sigh, knowing full well I just made a critical error.
Violet’s smirk turns into a smile, and I groan. Why the fuck did I ask?
I just invited more conversation. I opened the damn door and practically begged her to waltz through with an opinion I don’t want to hear.
She takes a sip of her sparkling water, frowns at it like it’s offended her, and sighs.
“God, another pregnancy with no liquor. Anyway,” she continues, setting down the glass, “all I’m saying is your wife might actually be a good little change in your life.
Clearly, she’s gotten you to open up more than you used to. ”
So, let’s add yet another thing to the list of shit my wife has stolen from me:
My peace.
My time.
And now, my ability to remain an emotionally repressed asshole.
Honestly not sure what's left to take at this point.