Beck loved Pop Tarts almost as much as he loved women.
“Third of all, when you start wearing matching socks, I’ll stop eating Pop Tarts.”
“They match,” I said of my socks. “You just can’t tell.”
Beck didn’t comment. I couldn’t even remember how the crazy socks started, but they became athingin college. Being known for them was as good a talking point as any, and people—girls in particular—started buying them for me. So of course, I had to wear them.
“Got these in my Easter basket last year,” I said.
“The fact that you get an Easter basket at your age is disturbing.”
“Says the guy eating Pop Tarts for breakfast because he probably just woke up despite the fact that it’s after one in the afternoon.”
“Late night,” he muttered between bites.
“I was with you, dipshit.”
“I can hear the two of you bickering like an old married couple,” Mason said, walking into the kitchen, “halfway down the hall.” He looked at Beck’s choice of breakfast food and rolled his eyes.
“What? Your fiancée got them for me,” Beck argued.
“Of course she did.”
Pia adored Beck, so that made sense. “It’s ironic that she sees through your bullshit but still likes you so much.”
“Fuck off.”
“Speaking of fucking,” I said, eager to tell the guys this one. “I had lunch with Delaney today.”
“You what?” Beck asked.
I filled him in on how that ended up happening. “More importantly, you’ll never believe this one. Even for my father, it’s a doozy.”
Mason leaned back against the kitchen counter, crossed his arms, and waited.
Beck, eyes wide, finished off his Pop Tart.
“So he asked me to stop at the pharmacy last weekend when he was in town, which is where I first met Delaney.”
“Delaaaaney.” Beck said her name in a sing-song voice, like a three-year-old might. The guy was addicted to hearing the sound of his voice.
“I didn’t think to look at the medication, but apparently Dad has been having some difficulty getting it up.” I let that sink in before adding, “So I had no idea she thought the meds were for me this whole time.”
“Oh.” Mason broke into a huge grin. “That’s rich.”
“And she still had lunch with you?” Beck laughed. “Your fucking father is a real winner.”
“When you say ‘fucking father’ do you mean that literally, or…” Mason laughed at his own joke.
“Funny,” I said. “Can you believe the guy?”
“Yes, we can,” Mason said. “What amazes me is how opposite the two of you are.”
“Thankfully, I got most of my mother’s genes.” Though I wasn’t taking any chances, just in case being a major dickhead after the nuptials was also an inherited trait.
“That’s not how it works,” Beck said, wiping crumbs from his breakfast onto the floor, earning a stern look from Mason. “You get half of your genes from each parent.”
“It was a figure of speech,” I pointed out.
