AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Eight years later
“Papa!” Azora shouts across the field. “Will’s licking the ball again!”
I smile at our daughter.
I still love teasing Beau, “Hey, Daddy.” He sits beside me, trying to drink his coffee in peace. “That’s got you written all over it.”
“Goddammit,” he mutters, wedging his cup in the holder before climbing out of his navy folding chair. “Willuf Bronson-Hawke!” He shouts, storming across the grass. “Quit licking the damn ball and throw it!”
But Beau loves this. He loves watching our kids play, even if our son likes to lick the football instead of throwing it half the time.
Colt laughs on the other side of me. He’s always the pragmatic parent. “Maybe,” he wonders, “if we tell him there’s dog poop in the park, he’ll stop.”
Colt holds Val, our youngest, in her baby carrier, content and sleeping on her Dad’s chest while our oldest kids try tossing a football like their fathers taught them.
But when kids are seven and five, you’re missing a few buttons off your shirt if you think that’ll last longer than five minutes.
“Well,” I beam, watching the spectacle as Beau starts running after Will because Will’s fast like Colt, squealing and thrilled by the chase. Other Charleston families peacefully enjoy their fall morning in the park while ours turns it into training camp every time. “Beau’s the one who told him about the Super Bowl and thesweet taste of victory. Now all that boy wants to do is lick every ball, thinking he can taste the flavor like chocolate ice cream.”
It makes me laugh, glancing at Colt, who smirks back with that sweet, devilish look in his brown eyes. It’s the same one he gets when he pinches my ass or slaps Beau’s when we’re washing dishes.
Cupping our daughter’s downy hair, holding her close to his brawny chest, Colt leans my way. “Speaking of thirty-one flavors and banana splits.”
By the huskiness in Colt’s voice, as his tender kiss takes mine, he’s as excited about tonight as I am.
Aunt Vale is babysitting because it’s the parents’ night out. We’ve booked our suite at The Mercier. We’ll have dinner and drinks there with friends before we have a long overdue night of kinky games.
I’ve weaned Val. I’m back on birth control. I went shopping at Delta’s for new toys to spice things up.
But honestly, I’d really just love an uninterrupted night in my husbands’ arms. They need it, too.
Lately, Will’s been climbing into our bed at ungodly hours. Then Azora, like a Tawny Owl, hears him and gets jealous. She climbs in, too. I swear, Val is nine months old and the only one who sleeps through the night.
I tease over Colt’s whiskers, “Don’t forget to pack the whipped?—”
But in the usual happy hell of parenting life, we’re interrupted.
“Mama!” Azora stomps our way, making her long brown ponytail swish. Her pretty cheeks are all flushed, her blue eyes squinting and mad. “I can’t practice with him. He’s such a brat. He licks the ball to annoy me.”
“Your brother is not a brat, pumpkin. He’s a boy.” I school our daughter—our wise elder. “The difference is brats grow out of it. Boys don’t. They’ll always an?—”
“Um,” Colt chuckles, jumping in, “what your mother means to say isI’ll practice with you.”
“But, Daaadddd, you’re holding Vaaaallll.” Azora’s dancing on the edge of a whine. I’m glad I packed cheese sticks to go with it. “She never lets you put her down. She always cries.”
“She’s teething,” I calmly remind her. “You were the same way.”
Azora rolls her eyes at me, and I flick my stare at Colt. He looks back, cocking his brow, our eyes speaking without words.
You know—Parent Telepathy.
“Oh hell, no,” we agree. “We’re not raising snobs or snowflakes.”
That’s another rule in our playbook.
“Azora Celeste,” I drop my tone, “what did we tell you about rolling your eyes at us?”
“Don’t make me turn this car around.”
