party it up like old ladies do in Lahaina, so they’ll definitely be staying for a few days.
Shit.
I text her back, saying that’s fine, and I’ll pick Bryce up by eight.
You’re fine, sweetie. Sleep in. I’ll bring him by your place!
Double shit.
I spend half the dinner trying to figure out how I can dig my way out of this with minimal damage. Needing to find a way to make sure Val sleeps late in the morning, I suggest we watch a movie after we eat. I let her pick, hoping she’ll find one to keep her awake for a few hours.
She does.
Two movies, actually.
Both chick flicks, love stories, one with Luke Shaw, this ripped billionaire guy all the ladies adore on the big screen. One of those films has some scenes that leave every part of me throbbing by the time we go to bed after midnight.
Blue balls doesn’t begin to describe what it’s like when I have to watch sex scenes with Little Miss Forgetful way too close for comfort.
There’s a searing heat, a few awkward smiles across the sofa, and so much unspoken tension I damn near Gorilla Glue my eyes to the screen. Bad idea.
Because it’s not just two detached strangers I see going at it like drunk gibbons. It’s me and Val, those long, caramel tanned legs of hers wrapped around me, digging into my sides, challenging me to fuck her faster and deeper and harder. Asking me to bed her like we’re truly man and wife.
Kill me.
I barely sleep a wink, tossing and turning, my cock hounding me to climb across the bed and do terrible things to keep us up. Lust might just be the most potent drug known to man.
Thankfully, Val sleeps soundly, without any nightmares. At some point, I’m able to force my brain to shut down and put me out.
She’s still sleeping when I climb out of bed as the sun starts coming up. I close the French doors and pull the hidden shade down to keep the room dark and quiet as I leave.
After a quick, ice-cold shower in the guest bathroom, I send my ma a text, asking her to bring over a box of malasadas. Custard filled—what else?
Val’s gonna need the sugar rush after hearing she has a stepson. There’s no way around it now.
Then I watch for my ma’s car from the front porch, so I can catch them outside. I spend a couple minutes alone, trying not to dwell on my own misery, before her orange Forester whips through the gate.
With his brown hair still mussed from sleep, but his blue eyes gleaming with excitement, Bryce throws open the door and jumps out, ready to talk my ear off about his time with grandma.
He’s a good kid. Still at the age where he doesn’t balk at his old man giving him a quick hug. But it only lasts for a second before he’s ready to bolt inside.
“Hold up, Bryce Crispie,” I say, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Need a few words with your grandma and then I need a few with you.”
“No problem, Dad.”
I turn to face my ma as she gets out of the car. “How was he?”
“Oh, the perfect angel he always is!” Mother says, carrying a pastry box as she walks around her car. “We had a wonderful time. We even stopped at Dole to stock up.”
She flashes me a devilish wink and points at the overstuffed bag in Bryce’s hand. I chuckle and shake my head.
Some things never change. Ma probably visits the touristy plantation five times a year, and she still comes back loaded with pineapple everything. Candy pineapple, chocolate pineapple, pineapple tea, probably pineapple mouthwash. The woman’s lived in Hawaii as long as we have, yet she hoards her pineapple goodies like she’s still a visitor.
“Shit, Ma. Bryce is gonna have pineapple breath for the next month,” I say, taking the malasada box.
Bryce, getting impatient, shoots toward the house.
“Bryce,” I snap. “Hold up.”
He frowns. So does my mother. It’s not my normal tone.
“But...but, Dad,” he says, batting his eyes. “I think I saw something in the window!”
My gut churns. I turn slowly.
Sure enough, Savanny’s smug little face is pushed against the glass. He’s sitting on the back of a chair, looking out, so close he leaves a smudge with his nose.
“It’s a cat,” Bryce says. “When did we get a cat?”
“Don’t open the door,” I tell him.
“A cat?” Mother asks. “And malasadas? Since when do you have a sweet