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His eyes flare like summertime sparklers. “You too, Sigrid.”
“Okay.”
“Take care of yourself, all right?” He hugs me to him hard, his hand cupping my neck, his mouth against my temple, where he presses the softest kiss. “Don’t be too bad, at least, without me.”
I smile against his shoulder. “No promises.”
“Of course the fashionable Sebastian is fashionably late to his own damn birthday party,” Viggo mutters, rearranging the gluten-free cookies, six different kinds that are spread across three trays. In the month since Sebastian’s and my schedules picked up into pure, barely ever-aligned chaos, Viggo’s been a gluten-free baking machine.
“Give him some credit,” I tell my brother. “He did just fly in from a game, oh”—I crane my neck, reading the clock on Ren’s oven—“an hour ago.”
“Excuses, excuses. Ren’s here!”
“It’s his house, you numbskull. Of course he’s here.”
Viggo huffs and tugs at his cravat. He’s dressed—shocking no one, since he’s obsessed with historical romance novels—as a Regency era aristocrat, complete with a peacock-blue tailcoat and scandalously tight saddle-brown breeches. I keep snort-laughing every time he tries to bend or do anything but stand in a pair of pants that seem to be dangerously compressing the parts of him I prefer not to think about. Every time he has to move, he lets out a little squeak of discomfort that’s giving me life.
I glance around at Ren and Frankie’s place, decorated with creamy paper lanterns and spooky cobwebs, elegant black garland and balloons clustered together. Candles cover every surface and dance in the sea breeze that sneaks through the open windows and screened door leading out to the deck.
Sebastian’s day-after-Halloween birthday bash is shaping up nicely.
Over two breakfasts at our usual spot the past month (the first, post-angry yoga, the other post-another bookshop browsing visit, this time, during regular hours, with no book casualties or other devious behavior, the memory of which might have made me blush head to toe when we visited the second time), Sebastian admitted to having a birthday that was barely a November 1, just-past-midnight arrival, which I argued basically means he’s got a Halloween birthday. After some plotting with my brothers, Sebastian agreed to let the Bergmans host a costume-themed party for him the day of.
Plans have been in place for a few weeks now. Invitations were sent (by me). Costumes were mandated (not a big ask for this crew, who loves to dress up and goof off). And an all gluten-free menu was decided on (thanks to Viggo, who bakes like a boss, also loves cooking, and was interested in being paid for said endeavors).
Now it’s just a matter of waiting.
And not losing my elf ears in the dill dip again.
Swearing in Swedish under my breath, I pluck out my elf ear once again and move around Viggo to rinse it in the sink.
Viggo tsks. “I heard that foul language, young lady.”
I shove him in the butt with my foot, making him tip sideways and squeak in discomfort. “Hey, Viggo, why don’t you try to bend over and pick up that dish towel you dropped?” I point with my chin to said towel lying sadly near his feet.
He glares at me. “I’m on a budget. This was the only size breeches Wesley could nab from the Hamilton production’s costume inventory without notice, okay?”
I snort a laugh. “Can you even breathe in them?”
“Marginally.” He cracks a smile as I laugh even harder.
“We’re here!” Oliver shuts the front door behind him and Gavin.
I let out a complimentary whistle. They’re both wearing tuxes that fit them like gloves. Oliver’s sporting a fluffy silver wig. Gavin’s wearing a wig, too, but his is brown, sort of like a seventies shag, and his beard is much thicker than normal. I wonder if he grew it out precisely for this. Lord knows, if Ollie asked him, he would. That man adores my brother.
Viggo and I tip our heads in tandem, trying to figure them out.
“Who the hell are you?” Viggo asks.
I swat him on the shoulder. “Be nice.”
Gavin rolls his eyes and gives Oliver a withering look. “Told you.”
“C’mon, guys!” Ollie yells. Gavin takes the cheese plate from him and leaves Oliver standing in the hallway. “Sondheim and Bernstein! How did you not get that?”
Gavin mutters under his breath, but there’s a smile cracking at his stern mouth.
Viggo blinks at Oliver, then understanding dawns. “The lyricist and composer you love.”
