you, hon. It’ll give you and the baby some privacy.” Bud realized Lynda was across the room and smiled at her for a second. “What are you doing here? I thought you were getting our tax paperwork together for the accountant.”
Lit-er-ally caught with a spoon in her mouth and a container of forbidden ice cream in her hand, Lynda attempted to appear innocent and hide what she was up to.
Bud, however, wasn’t having it. “What’s in your mouth?”
Summer and Ari looked from him to Lynda as she swallowed and came back with a guilty smile. “Nothing.”
“Uh-huh. And I suppose the Ben & Jerry’s in your hand is also nothing?”
Distracted by a golden opportunity to prove her hubby wrong, Lynda unthinkingly held the container up and waspishly muttered, “Say it with me. Häa—gen Dasz,” she enunciated with nitpicky emphasis.
For a couple married as long as these two, the rookie mistake on Lynda’s part came as a surprise. The gotcha satisfaction glowing on Bud’s face was all Summer needed to figure out he set his wife up to unknowingly confess.
Ari’s head swiveled. She looked at Summer with a baby smirk. Did she know that Uncle Bud was smart, but Mommy was way more clever?
Probably.
Sighing with Broadway-worthy emphasis, she opened a cabinet in the little kitchen island to pull out several boxes of Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes—Bud’s bounty from a shopping spree of post-holiday sale items at Target.
She waved a box and then tossed it to Bud. He caught it with one hand despite the beginning of a barking laugh. “Busted!” He chuckled.
Summer gave them both a look. “And for the record? When your daughter visits? She stashes her dispensary purchases here. I thought to keep you guys from knowing until one time Brigit told me it was to stop the sampling.”
Lynda snorted out a big laugh. “Those damn edibles get me every time. Bye-bye menopause mania and hello nicer human being.”
My goodness, but she really and truly had come to adore these two wonderful people. Brigit, too. They were a solid gold family.
Shifting the baby into the crook of her arm, Summer used her free hand to gesture in a circle. “This apartment? It’s Switzerland, okay? Neutral territory and exactly why you stash your naughty items here.”
“Well, not all the naughty items,” Lynda muttered with an eyebrow-wagging snicker.
Those saucy words were Summer’s cue to laugh and throw them the hell out. “That’s it! Scram! Vamoose! Both of you. I’m not here for your couple’s kink.” She pointed at the door while Ari cooed.
Bud gestured over his shoulder to the backyard door. “I’ll leave the way I came in.”
Lynda was already inching for the exit after putting her ice cream back in the freezer. She gave her husband a toodle-oo finger wave and winked at Summer.
In a conspiratorial whisper, she said, “Romantix down on Van Nuys Boulevard. Whatever floats your boat, and if they don’t have it in stock, they’ll order it.”
Alone in her apartment, baby in her arms, Summer blushed the color of a strawberry when a kaleidoscope of sexy scenarios paraded through her mind and sparked a wildfire in her dormant lady parts.
Dragging the family to Connecticut in the dead of winter and then forcing everyone into close confines for multiple days was a recipe for disaster. The explosion, when it happened, was every bit as impressive as Arnie knew it would be. What was unfortunate, though, was how quickly the family’s collective ire was directed at him. In a way, it was funny. Why? Because he was the one least interested in the chosen one designation.
“Watch your back, son.”
He met his father’s concerned gaze and straightaway set to put his old man’s mind at ease.
“My back is never exposed,” he muttered with sneering solemnity. “Many have tried. All have failed.”
“To date,” his father replied emphatically. “But you’re still susceptible. Nobody is impervious.”
“Why the concern? What’s happening in your mind?”
There was no time to answer, and none was needed when holy hell broke loose somewhere on the first floor. Angry voices and slamming doors got them both on their feet and moving swiftly in the direction of the disturbance.
They passed Darnell Senior. He was at the big desk in his home office. Both French doors were open, and his expression read as concerned. “I think she’s finally lost it,” he called out as they marched past.
His dad walked faster, and muttered, “Shit.” The man’s anxiety slammed into Arnie like an offensive footballer.