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“Making babies?” Lo looks at me like I’ve been hijacked. “Who says it like that?”
“He’s adopting his fiancée’s lingo,” Connor explains.
I flip them both off with two middle fingers.
Lo raises his hand now, which causes Lily to full-blown grin. She hugs her book to her chest, probably to stop herself from catapulting onto the bed.
“One problem concerning Greg Calloway,” Lo says. “When has he ever given a shit about what any of his daughters are doing?” He looks at his wife. “He’s always kind of been in the dark, Lil. And yeah, the fans hate us right now, but the media is always this crazy. It doesn’t change much. Greg is still a goddamn clueless softie.”
“And you’re his favorite,” Connor says. “I think that says more about Greg’s character than mine.”
Fucking fantastic. “So what’s your theory then?” I ask Connor.
He arches a brow but says nothing, and I realize that he’s not going to “share his wisdom” with me. Because I rejected it last time at the fertility doctor’s.
I’m not curious enough to pry and beg for it. Even if he tries to ease my concerns by saying, it’s probably nothing, I’m not even sure I’d believe him. Or if he says, he’s probably spying for Greg or he’s here to test you, I’d go fucking insane with the knowledge.
It’s probably better that he keeps his “wisdom” all to himself.
I’m no closer to knowing what Greg wants with Price. I can’t just fire Price and hire a new bodyguard for Daisy. The solid footing I’ve gained with Greg will be crushed with the act.
I just have to be cautious of Price.
And pray he’s not here to royally fuck us over.
DAISY CALLOWAY
“Snow!” Moffy gleefully squeals, on all fours before his parents can snap in his skis. Nestled in so many layers, he’s been waddling around the Lake Tahoe ski resort like a puffy penguin. The barren area is mostly flat for young kids to learn how to stand, not ready for the beginner’s slope.
Or really any slope. Moffy and Jane are too young to even be in a ski class.
“Boos boos boos,” Jane sing-songs, trying to say boots. Even though she’s learned a ton of words by eighteen-months, she has trouble hitting the hard “t” sound.
Jane sits on her bottom, patting her boots, sans skis like Moffy.
Ryke and I stick our boards by the bunny slope, a few feet behind the babies and their parents. We usually sprint off towards the mountainsides riddled with signs like Danger: Do not enter! YOU WILL DIE!
Just kidding.
We’re not that destructive, though we do like snowboarding down black diamond trails, but we’ve never seen the babies ski before. We both want to witness this historic moment.
Lo bends down to his son, snapping in the skis while Connor snaps in Janie’s.
I lean my hip against Ryke and bet, “A hundred for Moffy.”
“Janie has it,” Ryke counters.
“Are you betting on the kids again?” Lily asks, squinting at me through the falling snowflakes. She tugs down her white fuzzy Wampa cap that matches the little one on Moffy’s head.
“Me?” I try to say innocently but I yawn into my ski jacket, striped with bright pinks, oranges, lime-greens, and blues. Lo called me a child’s candy cane. I took it as a compliment.
Ryke’s black beanie covers his hair, goggles on his forehead. His concern shines down on me for a millisecond, and my phone buzzes in my pocket.
“Yes you.” Lily perches her hands on her hips, in full-on investigative mode. “I heard you. You said…” She thinks hard but can’t recall my exact words. “You said something I know you said something.” She nods.
I love my sister, and I can’t stop smiling. “Depends if Moffy stands up on his skis first,” I tell her. “Then we’re totally betting on them.”
Ryke snaps my goggles over my eyes, and I almost laugh but I remember that I have to read my texts. There’s a fifty percent chance it’s Harper or Cleo flooding my inbox.
My lips downturn, and I remove my glove, clicking into my phone.
If you need to talk again, don’t hesitate to call me over the holidays. I’m always free. – Frederick
Old text. The new one:
I can’t determine whether the cyst is growing without an ultrasound. It’s not something that should ruin your holiday. Wait until you come back to the east coast, and we’ll check. – Dr. Yoshida
Over the phone, he told me, “It’s probably a little spotting from the cyst. Nothing to worry about.” Last night, it kind of plagued me, and I texted him, asking if the cyst was enlarging.
He’s saying it’s not urgent, so I just need to compartmentalize this and let it drift off into oblivion for now.
Rose’s icy voice suddenly cuts into my thoughts. “You’re not betting on Jane?” I hear the frown in her words.
“I am.” Ryke nods to her.
Rose narrows her eyes at me like I’ve betrayed the sisterhood.
Cheerfully, I declare my loyalties, “I’m Team Lily for now but Team Rose for later.”
Lo gives me a sharpened side-eye. “Smooth.”
I’d say Rose thinks so, but the snow totally sidetracks her from sisterhood things and revenge-plots against Loren Hale. She literally dusts melting flakes off the laces of her brand new, bold red boots. I wonder if the stresses of the holidays have made her more anxious or if it’s something else.
Seeing her OCD flare up puts a sinking pit in my stomach.
“Hey, Rose.” I smile wide as she meets my eyes. “I like the red color you chose.”
“They were out of black,” she snaps and then squats to fix the laces on her boots.
“That’s a shame,” Lo says, clipping in Moffy’s right ski. “Now your boots don’t match your heart.”
She growls and reties her laces. I miss her fiery comebacks.
Connor observes his wife for a second, but Jane throws her little body at her father like she’s catapulting off a trampoline. She squeals with laugher and draws Connor’s attention immediately.
He lifts her up.
“Hug,” she grins, her cheeks redden from the cold.
His grin matches hers. “Thank you, honey.” He kisses her forehead before putting her bottom back on the snow. So he can fit her skis.
“Fuck,” Ryke mutters. He’s peering over his shoulder at the lodge, cafés, fire pits, and ski lift where we just left. About twenty feet from us, our bodyguards block our small area, not letting anyone approach our group.
Price has distanced himself from the fleet, nearing us.
Ryke is not happy about it.
If the media hasn’t figured out where we are yet, they probably will within the hour, so we need to hurry. Capturing a photo of Moffy and Jane skiing is worthy of a tabloid’s front page, and everyone wants this to be a pleasant experience for them.
Meaning no lenses up against their faces or journalists screeching questions in their ears.
“I’m okay!” I shout at Price and give him a thumbs-up.
Price hesitates more at my command than Ryke, who is sizzling beside me. Radiating heat. His tense and locked body language says enough.
I don’t have much of an opinion on Price yet, other than he’s nothing like Mikey, who was more of a friend and less of a…parent.
I hate to do this, but I shoo Price with the wave of my hand, adding an apologetic smile with the motion. He takes the hint and eases back with the fleet.
Ryke is unmoving.
I place one of my palms on his cold cheek. Only his head shifts, just to stare down at me. My fiancé is a stone statue. Not Adonis. Ryke is the wild boar that killed the godliest god in Greek mythology, slaying all handsome things.
Then he pulls my white pom-beanie over my eyes.
“He moves!” I lift up the beanie, and Ryke flips me off. Cellphone already in my hand, I snap a photo, immortalizing his fuck you to me.
Such love.
His brooding brows rise. “Seriously, Calloway?”
“As serious as pumpkin pie,” I say like it makes all the sense in the world. It actually makes zero sense—maybe that’s why I like it so much. I replay my words in my head and laughter builds aloud, my breath smoking the air.
He gives me a look. “What the fuck is so funny?”
“Pumpkin pie.” I grip my waist, a stitch in my side, and I laugh again.
He suddenly steals my phone and snaps a pic, typing too. Just as I regain composure, he chucks the phone back at me.
I manage to catch it, and my laugh quiets as I curiously skim the screen.
His Instagram is popped up, both of our photos posted side-by-side with the caption: my someday wife #sweetheart #pumpkinpie
My chest swells because Ryke isn’t big on social media, not unless I remind him.
