Chapter 2
Harrison
Smirking, I glance up.
Zac strolls over, yanking his tie loose like he’s seconds from lighting it on fire.
I shake my head, a grin tugging at my mouth. “Impressive. One favor and you just… appear. Is this a speak of the devil thing?”
“When opportunity knocks…” His gaze skims the shelves, finger tapping his chin. Then it sharpens, zeroing in on the one needle in the haystack I somehow missed.
Repeatedly.
It takes him all of five seconds to pull a book that never even registered on my radar.
Much like the rest of this store.
He shoves it into my hand. “This one. Now, stop fondling the cookware.”
“Gladly.” I abandon the marked-down rolling pin.
Zac pockets his tie and pops the top button of his shirt. Then, he takes in a long breath, slow and deep, like the last half hour’s been a fight for air.
I give him a once-over, taking in the crisp lines, the polish that doesn’t quite fit him anymore. “What’s with the getup? Thought you retired the corporate monkey suit for the woman of your dreams.”
“Cake tasting,” he says, like it’s a burden. “With Hannah. And Mom.”
“At the fancy place around the corner?” I huff. “Rough life.”
“Yeah, well, you try mainlining straight sugar on an empty stomach.” He drags a hand over his jaw. “I’m jittery as hell and wondering why, in a store full of overpriced cookware, they’re casually selling sex toys.”
I raise a brow. “What?”
He grabs a box and gives it a shake. “Beads.” He taps the words on the label. “For your pies.”
I blink. “As in plural?”
“Those are quite the deal,” the woman in the black apron says, reappearing. She taps the tag. “They come in an assortment of sizes.”
Zac’s shoulders start to quake.
“You don’t say?” I reply like an adult.
“We also carry them on a chain,” she adds brightly. “For easy cleanup.”
I choke. Zac wheezes.
I hand her the book. “I’ll just take this.”
She checks her watch. “Are you sure? We’re about to do a demo.”
“A demo?” Zac howls, one breath away from hitting the floor.
I shake my head. “Just the book.”
After I pay, we head out and cross the street to Mick’s Tavern.
Mick’s smells like burgers on the grill and something always frying. The leather stools at the bar are broken in just right.
Manhattan’s peppered with fancy places. Finding a straight-up burger-and-fries spot on the Upper East Side is harder than getting coffee anywhere in this city without foam.
Mick’s is the opposite of all that. Easy. Familiar. The kind of place that feeds you like family, with portions that say they’re sure you haven’t eaten well in weeks.
“Saved you two seats,” Mick says, already sliding Cokes our way, his gray beard doing nothing to hide the grin.
“Thanks.” I know he probably says that to everyone, but something about it’s grown on me.
After a life of deployments, it’s as if I’m settled. And with three kids growing up faster than I can keep up with, settled feels… good.
“Your usual?” he asks.
“Extra fries,” Zac adds.
“You got it.”
I side-eye him. “Didn’t you just eat?”
“Cake,” he says, shaking his head. “Just cake.” Then, he nods toward my hand. “So. It’s still on?”
I frown, rolling the silicone ring against my finger.
How do I even answer that?
“It’s…” I blow out a breath. “Complicated.”
Zac huffs out a laugh. “Complicated,” he repeats. “Stubborn mules tend to overcomplicate things.”
“I’m not a stubborn mule.”
“Of course you’re not.” He smirks. “You’re a perfectly easygoing mule having lunch with me instead of spending the holidays with his wife.”
“You think I wanted her to go?” I lash out. “Newsflash, I didn’t. She did this. I didn’t get a say.”
“Or, she did it to get the press off your back.”
“Or maybe she was tired of playing house.” I take a long sip of my Coke, swallowing down a ball of emotion I don’t want to deal with.
“There is this new thing,” he offers lightly, “It’s called a phone. The kids say every time she calls, you suddenly have to be somewhere else.”
My jaw tightens. “Maybe she just calls when I do have to be somewhere else.”
Zac snorts. “Or maybe her husband just needs to pull his head out of his ass and talk to her?”
“Here we are.” Mick presents two plates to us. “Philly steak, extra mayo.” He slides it my way. “And a double patty, extra bacon, chili, egg, jalapenos, with a village-sized portion of fries,” he rattles off by heart. Then he grins. “Holler if you need anything.”
“Like antacid,” I mumble and stare at the heart-attack special Zac immediately digs into. “How are you even capable of eating that?”
He talks through another ravenous bite. “I sampled fourteen cakes. All of them chocolate in different moods. At this point, I’ll eat anything to strip the sugar off my tongue.”
I point a fry at him. “If there’s one thing your mom and my sister know, it’s that you love chocolate.”
“I love pizza, too. Doesn’t mean I want it force-fed to me until I black out,” he says, taking another bite.
I chuckle. “Who knew death by chocolate was a legitimate threat.” I bite my sandwich, picturing Mrs. D. and Hannah Bananahead hovering, insisting he try just one more bite.
Then, it hits me. “I thought Hannah was making your wedding cake.”
“Well, you thought wrong. Because it’ll be a cold day in hell before I let her or my mother, the two women I love most, spend that day trapped in a kitchen, spiraling over a crooked fondant flower.
” He stabs a fry in his ketchup. “I’ll take one for the team.
Even if it kills me. One slice of double Dutch chocolate at a time. ”
I lean back, a slow smile tugging at my mouth. “Wow. A martyr. For cake. I’m impressed. Slightly concerned. Mostly because Hannah’s been baking like she’s training for nationals. And if I know my sister, she doesn’t just surrender the oven. There are terms. Possibly blood oaths.”
“Didn’t even blink,” he says, entirely too pleased with himself, popping another fry into his mouth.
I narrow my eyes. “Uh-huh. What did she get? You, finally learning to line dance? A month of laundry service?”
“I already do the laundry. The woman is a nightmare with fabric softener.” He reaches for another fry. “I just told her she could make yours.”
I blink. “My what?”
“Your wedding cake.”
I stop mid-bite. “My wedding cake?” I drop my sandwich. “In case you missed the memo, Ava and I are already married.”
Albeit not exactly the way I pictured it. Seeing as we both thought it was fake. Just a few promo shots for one of her upcoming films.
Turns out… it wasn’t.
And yeah, her brother’s already given me the side-eye over the twelve-for-a-dollar silicone ring like I personally offended the institution of marriage.
But according to Henry Bloom, most expensive family attorney in New York, all of that counts.
Instant matrimony.
No take-backs.
Not that I’d have it any other way.
Zac doesn’t answer. Instead, he shoves half of the enormous burger into his mouth so he can’t speak. Suspicious?
Yes, it is.
And with an unholy amount of chili oozing onto his plate, it’s also disgusting.
And it’s the exact same move he pulled when the kids dumped an entire jar of pickles on the couch and swore him to secrecy.
Teachable lesson for my kids: invisible things still have a smell.
I narrow my eyes. “What?”
“I’m not supposed to say anything,” he says around a mouthful of food.
“And I’m not supposed to tell Hannah you ate half the raw cookie dough and blamed my three innocent children.”
He pauses. Chews. Swallows. “They were well compensated for taking one for the team. State-of-the-art camping gear, if I recall correctly.”
“Explain it to the judge.” I lift my phone, Hannah BananaHead grinning up at me, tongue out like she’s twelve and adorable.
My thumb hovers over the call button. “Tick tock.”
“Okay, okay.” He drinks, working through the wreckage of half a burger still lodged in his cheeks.
Finally, he blurts out their deep, dark secret. “Connor, Ollie, and Snook are planning a surprise wedding for you and Ava. As soon as she gets back.”
Realization seeps in slow like the tide. The kind that barely registers until it’s already at your throat.
My three hellions going all in on their grumpy dad marrying Princess Luna.
Which explains why they suddenly emptied their allowances. For all I know, they’ve blasted out brightly colored, misspelled invitations to anyone with a cell phone number.
Or worse… an Instagram account.
Lunch be damned. I should’ve ordered a scotch.
A wedding.
For me and my very absent wife.
Something tightens in my chest. Hope. Fear.
Because, fuck…
What if Pix doesn’t come back?