Rowan waves from the driver’s side window of the black Škoda Kodiaq (it had the highest safety rating Jamie could find, and he’d given up the Genesis easily before the girls made their grand entrance into the world). The window is all the way down, so he can still hang his head out while he drives slowly away.
“Someday, we’re going to see him driving down the highway like that,” Gideon says with a sigh. He pushes Nix’s hair off his neck so he can kiss him there softly and breathe Nix in.
It causes a frisson of anticipation and desire to sizzle down Nix’s spine.
“I just wish it wasn’t with the kids in the car.” Sometimes Rowan’s wolf is too close to the surface for Nix’s peace of mind.
“They’re as safe as can be with Grayson on board, and you know Rowan would never risk them. Besides, it’s twenty minutes to the Costases’ place.”
Nix misses them all already.
“They’re going to have such a good time. Whose idea was the Frankenstein jumpy castle, do you think?”
They both say, “Lauren,” at the same time, followed by a chuckle.
“She promised it’s not too scary, but you never know. I think her bar for what’s frightening is really, really high.”
Gideon scoffs and throws an arm over Nix’s shoulders as the gate at the bottom of the drive opens to let the Kodiaq through. “I’m just glad I didn’t draw the short straw.”
“Why do you hate on what is the best time of the year?”
“It’s not Halloween that puts me off, Kitten. It’s the Wicked Witch of—”
Nix elbows Gideon gently in the side. “You shush. The kids will love it, and we get to enjoy the fruits of her labor. Be grateful.”
Lauren had insisted she didn’t need more than two of the children’s parents “harshing her vibe,” and that they could draw straws. She and her mates could handle the children—and since that included Grandpa-Artem too, that meant a one-to-one grandparent-to-child ratio at the annual party the Costases threw for their law firm staff.
With a final wave that no one but Rowan sees, the wrought-iron gate swings closed, and Nix heaves a long sigh.
It’s not easy seeing his babies drive away without him, bent on their own fun.
“I’ll make sure you don’t miss them for too long.” There’s a sharp pinch to his butt as Gideon whispers in his ear, “Come on, help me make dinner.”
Tonight it’s just Gideon, Nix, and later, Finn. Gideon had promised them a repeat of the pasta no one got to eat at Jamie’s birthday. It had sat cold in the kitchen while they’d eaten their first course off of Luca, naked and shivering with arousal on the dining room table (Gideon had dubbed it a char-CUTE-erie).
Once in the kitchen, Gideon sets out flour and eggs, and the hand-cranked pasta maker. This pasta is a staple at Ruckus, where patrons of all ages can find it cut into tiny shapes, like fish or stars, for the children and anyone else who can’t resist the delicious whimsy.
“Do you want to turn my crank or mix the dough?” Gideon asks, while he waggles his eyebrows lasciviously.
“Neither. I’m going to finish up my surprise for you and Finn.”
“You know Finn’s notreally into Halloween.”
It was true that Dr. Merritt could cut a person open and remove real entrails, but pretend ones were off the table.
“Ha ha. Nothing scary, besides it’s really more of a roleplay, and I know he likes that just fine.” It’s Nix’s turn to waggle his eyebrows and hop down from the counter so he can pinch Gideon’s butt.
His ears might be pink, but he smells like a humid summer rainstorm—all anticipation and electricity. “Who are we tonight?”
“It’s a surprise. Finn’s at work late, so for the first part it’s just you and me, hot stuff. Your costume is hanging in your room.” Nix skips out, grabbing the last square box, delivered just in time, and heads up the stairs to the right wing. He had Grayson help him set everything up before he left. He’d been a bit bitter about being left out of such a romantic-looking play, but the kids had quickly distracted him with their costume parade.
Nix pulls out his phone to look at the kids’ costumes one more time. He’s rather proud of them, actually.
Mari is a tiny secret agent, à la Lauren. Her serious face held in place for the very short time it took for Nix to snap a million pictures, before she’d devolved into giggles and parkour’d from couch to table to straight-up climbing Rowan.
Her much more subdued sister had chosen the cutest, fluffiest little white chicken. Rosie doesn’t have many words yet, unlike her sister, but she has a very enthusiasticbok-bok-bok.
However, it’s when she makes the little chicken head on the top do the same that Nix thinks she is most like Grayson. It’s pure inherited magic, evident at a very young age—unpredictable and intermittent. It’s crazy to think that they’re two years old now and are quickly becoming their own people.
