CHAPTER 35
Declan
Maybe this is what happens when all the pieces fall together—love, sex, and friendship. I don’t think many men ever experience this. I think it’s rare. I think maybe the MacLaines are exceptionally lucky. Blessed, even.
I know I am. My three older brothers are. And in each case, it unfolded in a way so full of twists and turns that no one could have seen it coming.
Victoria came to the ranch to acquire some of our land and acquired Cal’s heart instead.
Emma arrived at the ranch as a housekeeper and stayed on as a mother to Jasmine and wife to Finn.
Phoebe and Evander fell in love while trying to survive a deadly blizzard.
Summer and I drunk-stumbled into a Las Vegas wedding chapel, got married, and had no memory of it the morning after.
It would be nice if Special K had the same kind of luck, but I can’t see it. He barely speaks. He’s as engaging as a bowl of oatmeal. If he’s got a sense of humor, nobody has been able to locate it, even after years of searching.
I chuckle to myself. Nope. Just can’t picture how that would ever happen.
My fingers dawdle in Summer’s hair. “I’m thinking about Special K,” I tell her, because I know she was about to ask me what I was laughing at.
“Don’t be so rough on Kevin. He’s a sweetheart.”
“He’s a Sasquatch.”
“But a sweet one. And I love the guy. Let’s eat.”
Summer jumps up and throws on her pajama pants and sweatshirt and I put on my clothes, and we walk out in our socked feet. I throw logs on the fire and get it going again.
We got a little distracted a couple hours ago. Once I told Summer the whole selkie story, and she knew I was on the level, she straddled my lap and it was on.
I love when that happens.
Summer’s bent over looking in the fridge. I tiptoe closer so I can grab her ass and make her scream.
“I know you’re there,” she says, not bothering to turn around. “All right, I’ve got cheese, and I think I’ve got some bread in the freezer, so I could probably make grilled cheese if I actually knew how.”
“Step aside, please.”
Summer hops up on the counter while I get to work. Her kitchen is a sad and lonely place. Hardly any food and fewer pans and utensils. But I manage to slap together a few grilled cheeses, and we snuggle up on the couch to eat.
“Let’s have a chat,” I tell her.
“We chat pretty much nonstop.”
I watch her take a bite of melty cheese and grilled bread. I had to cut off the moldy bits—from both the cheese and the bread—but I think it’s probably safe to eat.
“What do you want out of our life together?”
Summer pulls out a string of cheese and gobbles it down. “Just this. Happiness and love and belonging. And grilled cheese.”
“Would you ever want to have kids do you think? Maybe one day off in the future?”
“Sure!” she says it with more enthusiasm than I anticipated. “I know it would change my life permanently, but in a good way. But you’d have to help because I’ll tell you right now that I will not be doing it all by my damn self.”
I hold up my fist. She bumps it with hers.
“Deal,” I say.
“Deal,” she says.
“But how many?”
“How many did you have in mind, MacLaine?”
“Well, here’s how I’ve always seen it. First off, five is too many. My parents absolutely should have stopped with me.”
“Poor K.”
“But definitely not just one kid. I wouldn’t want them to be alone.”
“Alone? No one is alone on Yosemite Ranch, even if they want to be!”
“But with two kids you get direct, head-to-head rivalry that can get ugly. So three kids would smooth out the edges.”
“But three is an odd number,” Summer notes. “Someone would always feel left out.”
I kiss her, putting my greasy lips to hers. “You’re brilliant. Exactly! Which brings me right back to the obvious conclusion—four children.”
“That’s a lot of children.”
“But at least we’d have a built-in babysitter with Jasmine.”
Summer frowns. “Aren’t you supposed to be the computer science geek? The math doesn’t even work in that statement. First of all, parents don’t usually leave super-young babies with babysitters. So the kid would probably have to be at least two years old.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“And I think most babysitters are in the twelve-to-sixteen age range because any earlier is too young and any later is too old because they’re getting really involved in school and social lives and stuff.”
“Jasmine is only nine.”
“Right. So, her window opens three years from today and closes seven years from today. That means we’d have to get pregnant right now for her to be able to babysit our first kid when they’re two and when she’s twelve.
And then we’d need to have the rest of our kids like boom-boom-boom to fit any babysitting at all into Jasmine’s four-year window. ”
I squint at her “What?”
Summer shrugs and finishes off her grilled cheese.
“You fascinate me,” I tell her.
“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to chat.”
“I guess we can just hire a babysitter when we need one.”
“That would work, too.”
I put her empty plate on the coffee table. Then I crawl over to her where she’s tucked into the corner of the couch and snatch the hem of her crewneck sweatshirt in my teeth. I drag the shirt all the way up to her chin before I start having some trouble.
Summer is giggling. She says, “If you can remove my sweatshirt with just your teeth—no hands, no help from me, and without the sweatshirt slipping from your teeth in the process—I’ll give you a blow job you’ll never forget.”
I accept the challenge because that’s what MacLaine men do.
The angle is tricky, though, and I have to stand and walk around the couch with her shirt in my teeth, which nearly results in Summer’s strangulation, but I keep trying.
It’s a clusterfuck.
Summer ends up doing a back somersault off the couch, landing with her ass directly on my face, so I decide to cheat and use my opposable thumbs to rip off the sweatshirt and also her sweatpants while I’m at it because I’m all about efficiency.
Then she rips off my jeans and T-shirt and we’re rolling around laughing so hard that we almost don’t hear the banging on the front door.
Summer hops to her feet, as do I. I stand in front of her to protect her. Out of the corner of my eye I see her picking up our clothes from the floor and clutching everything to the front of her body.
“Pretend you’re not home,” I whisper to her. “Don’t answer the door.”
“That’s not going to be enough, and you know it!” she whispers back, making a run for her bedroom with my clothes still pressed to her nakedness.
Just as the front door flies open.