"Dad, can you take the kids for a while?" Callahan is already steering Wick toward Will. "Lily and I need to check on the last of things before the party."
Before Will can answer, Wick tips his face up to his father with an expression of pure disgust.
"Is that secret speak for making out?"
All three adults freeze. I bury my face deeper into Nova's neck, my shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
"What do you know about making out?" Callahan asks, his voice carefully neutral.
"I know kissing is when you go like this with your mouth." Wick purses his lips and makes exaggerated smooching noises, turning his head from side to side like he's seen it done in movies.
"And making out is when you put your tongue in Mommy's mouth."
He opens his mouth wide to demonstrate, and Callahan moves fast, clamping one hand over Wick's mouth and the other behind his head.
Will is absolutely loving this, his eyes bright with joy at his son's suffering.
"How do you know this?" Callahan demands, trying for stern and landing somewhere closer to horrified.
Wick wiggles free enough to talk. "I heard Wells and Eli talking. They said their parents do it too and it's disgusting."
Callahan and I lock eyes over our son's head, both of us fighting desperately not to crack up.
"Those two boys together are always bad news," Callahan mutters as he releases Wick. "And no, we are not going to make out. I promise."
"Good." Wick nods with satisfaction. "Because it looks yucky when you do it."
"Alright, buddy." Will swoops in, lifting Nova from my arms with practiced ease. She goes happily to her grandfather, one hand still clutching her soggy rabbit. "Leave your mother and father to their yucky plans and come play with me and your sister."
He herds both children toward the door of the workshop, shooting us a knowing look over his shoulder that makes Callahan groan.
We close the door to the shop and Callahan has me pressed against the wall before I can draw my next breath, his mouth on mine, hungry and wet and full of tongue. This is in fact a full-blown make-out session, the kind our six-year-old has apparently been educated about by his cousins.
"I thought you promised your son we wouldn't make out," I manage between kisses.
"When it comes to you," kiss, "I will always," tongue traces my lower lip, "always," catches it between his teeth and tugs, "break my promises."
Then we're stumbling toward the house, kissing and laughing, crashing through the back door and up the stairs. We tumble onto our bed in a tangle of limbs, and I'mgiggling against his mouth because this man makes me so happy.
"We have no time to change sheets again," I warn him, pushing halfheartedly at his chest. "My only demand is you keep your fingers and your mouth away from me."
He pulls back, wounded. "But I love it when you…"
"I love it too, but you get so smug every time I squirt that you're impossible, and we're expecting company in forty-five minutes."
"How am I impossible?" He props himself up on his elbows, genuinely offended. "You're the one who's always being inappropriate just for the hell of it."
"Because you get so intense after, and look all hot and I get all tingly and horny."
He chuckles. "So this is more of a you problem."
I swat at him. "This is an us problem because it's our cute daughter's birthday and this house is about to be full real soon."
His expression softens, all the teasing fading into something tender. "She is really cute, isn't she?"
"She is." I smile up at him, unable to resist the love in his eyes.
"I'm so happy, baby," he tells me.
