spitting bubbles, earning his nickname. “You’re so pudgy and round,” I coo.
“And look at these thunder thighs,” Clea adds while tickling his rolls.
“His weight has almost tripled. He eats very well.” Presley gestures to her chest.
“I don’t blame him. You’ve got a nice set of knockers.” I wink at her.
“If only they garnered that reaction from the opposite sex,” she mutters.
My gaze bounces between Presley and her son. “Wait, are you already back on the prowl?”
“Well, no.” She huffs, scattering the black hair sticking to her forehead. “It’s just nice to be noticed.”
“Sure freaking would be,” Clea harps beside me.
“I take it there haven’t been any major improvements with—”
She cuts me off with a glare. “No.”
Presley sips at her lemonade. “His loss.”
The four of us are camped out in her backyard, enjoying the delicious heat from mid-July. Our feet are soaking in a frigid kiddie pool to chase the sweat away. This is exactly what I needed after being stuck at the office while the sunshine taunted me. My job doesn’t have quite the same sparkle after being hosed by a certain client who shall remain nameless. I clench my jaw at the invasive memory. That’s a topic I’m supposed to be ignoring.
“Men are stupid,” I grumble. “Except this sweet little angel. You’re perfect.”
Archer babbles a string of nonsense jargon at me. His adoring audience—me included—cheer him on. He’s all the entertainment I need.
Presley boops his nose. “He’s really such a good baby. I’m spoiled. When I tell other new moms how much he sleeps, they give me a death glare.”
I smile at him when he reaches for my hair. “How old is little Archie now?”
“Four and a half months.” Presley recites that with a robotic undertone. It’s probably an annoying question she has to answer on the regular.
Gooey fingers yank at my tresses and I wince. With delicate precision, I pry his grip off me. I hold out his teether and he reaches for it with zombie arms. “I need to visit more. This cutie pie is a more effective mood booster than a champagne bubble bath.”
My friends share a glance. Presley cringes at being selected as the designated speaker. “Are you doing okay, Van?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” My chipper tone isn’t meant to fool anyone. I’m just forcing reality to butt out.
“Do we really need to say it?” Clea twists her lips.
“I’m fine, really. This isn’t a big deal at all. I’m a boomerang with a quick rebound. It’s my motto. Brush off, strut away, and be peachy.” Another wary look gets exchanged between them and I scoff. “Honestly.”
It’s not a total lie. I’ve only been home for twenty-three hours and forty-six minutes. Not that I’m keeping track. After being involved in what can only be described as a shit storm, I hightailed it out of Chicago on the first departure. The Windy City chewed me up and spit me out, but I mostly blame the billionaire extraordinaire for that. Fucking prick, that one. I hope karma nails his ass to something gross, like a public bus seat. That has to be close to his version of hell.
I landed in Minneapolis in time to catch happy hour. That didn’t seem like a wise decision, though. Mixing booze with frazzled nerves is a disaster waiting to strike. I took the rest of the day to lick my wounds in private.
Clea nudges my shoulder. “You’re not invincible, and no one expects you to be. It’s okay to admit you need a hug, Van.”
My nose stings and I sniff. “I’d never say no to that.”
They take turns wrapping their arms around me—while shuffling a wiggly Archer between us—until I’m wrung out of fresh air and gasping for breath. Just to prove a point, or for good measure, Presley and Clea give me another squeeze. We break apart and resume our relaxation stations. My exhale is a tad lighter after that.
Presley’s eyes twinkle in the shade. “Better?”
I nod, trying to stop my grin from wobbling. “Don’t worry, ladies. I’m drunk on denial punch right now. My ego is bruised, but I’ll get over it. I can’t win them all.”
Clea gives me a slow once-over. “That sounds extremely optimistic. What happened to my jaded friend?”
“Maybe this experience taught me a valuable lesson. It can always get worse, so look on the bright side until that’s no longer an option.” This is what I tell myself as the pressure on my chest bears down. That cramp is still manageable. I’ll have to process these