Page 3 of Thresholds


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"Yeah, it's probably the dick," I continued, ignoring him. "She's allowed a boy toy, isn't she? I hope her room is on the opposite side of the resort. You wouldn't want her and Marco keeping you up all nightlong."

He pressed his fist to his lips. "I'm throwing up in my mouth right now, Halsted," he choked out. "Maybe I should tell your wife about her securitydetails."

I leaned forward, folding my arms on the desk. "Go right ahead," I replied. "I'd love it if she could aim some of that fierce third trimester energy at me instead of everyone else. Hell, I'd behappyif she'd just stop going to the office every goddamn day or moving furniture on herown."

He blinked down at his desk before looking back to me. "I wouldn't be able to tell April that she wasn't allowed to do anything. She'd just stab me again, or knock me on my ass," hemused.

I tried—failed—to withhold a snicker. It didn't matter that Jordan had seven inches and one hundred pounds on April, that woman could take him any day of theweek.

"I don't even know if she wants kids," hecontinued.

"Ask her," I said simply, "and then put a ring on thatfinger."

Jordan stared off into the distance as he ran his knuckles along his jaw. "I will blame you if this goes bad," hemurmured.

"Of course you will," I said. "You blame me every time you're out of fuckin' paper clips, Kaisall. You'll absolutely blame me if you botch a proposal to a highly marry-ablewoman."

"You know what? Fuck you," he said. "I'm gonna watch April kick a former Green Beret's ass, then I'm getting on my plane with her and going to the Goldeneye resort. Don't call me until the new year, unless it's to tell me I was right and the baby came early and you've named it Jordan in myhonor."

"Say hi to Mama Trish for me," I said. "Try not to kill her boy toy while you're in Jamaica. She'd be real sad aboutthat."

"Merry fucking Christmas, Halsted," he shouted, a laugh creeping into hiswords.

After wrappingup my call with Jordan, I pushed away from my desk. My work schedule was light today, and that was good news because I had a long list of other problems tosolve.

I headed down the stairs from my third floor office and toward our bedroom. It was early yet, and the house was quiet. I peeked inside, pleased when I found Shannon asleep. She was up late last night as she had a million things on her mind and couldn't rest until she got them all out. That, and the baby was kicking the shit out of herribs.

Shannon was going to the office this morning—damn stubborn woman—but I needed that time to get a few projects under control while she was out of the house. Come four o'clock this afternoon, Walsh Associates was shutting down for the holidays and my wife was officially on maternity leave. Finally. No more driving all over the fucking universe, no more visiting goddamn construction sites, no more refereeing her dumbass brothers all day, every day. She was out of the office and her deputy Tom was responsible for herworkload.

That didn't mean she was going to take it easy before the baby arrived. Why the hell would she dothat?

She was determined to buy several more investment properties to "keep the boys busy" while she was out of the office. There were lists, work plans, budgets. It was enough for three years, let alone the three months until she planned to return to her regularschedule.

And that was on top of repeatedly reorganizing every piece of newborn clothing and linens, rearranging the nursery, repacking her hospital bag. Shannon was in deep with the nesting, and I had no hope of yanking her out. I could only demand she provide me with marching orders and let me do the work for her. That approach often involved us yelling at each other for an extended period of time but it was a good distraction from all the things she thought she needed to do before we met thebaby.

I closed the door behind me and crossed the hall to Abby's room. We'd moved her in there and out of the nursery shortly after her birthday last month, and I still got a pang in my chest seeing her in the "big girl room." As far as I was concerned, she could be a big girl when she was forty-two and gainfully employed as a nun. There was no point between now and then in which she could be anything other than my littleFroggie.

She was sound asleep in the position I'd named the Drunken Sailor—flat on her back, arms and legs flailed out, head full of wild blonde curls all over the place, drool spilling over her chin. This kid. I had no idea I could adore one little person thismuch.

Because she could go from Drunken Sailor to Screeching Attack Ninja in five seconds flat, I backed out of the room slowly and closed the door with more care than I gave to defusing actualbombs.

I went in search of coffee and found my father in the kitchen. The dogs weaved between his legs, each vying for more head scratches and pats. From the look of his layers and the leashes tucked into his back pocket, I'd guess they were coming in from a walk on thebeach.

"Morning," Icalled.

"Morning," he echoed. "I'm going to get these guys set up with some breakfast. We had a nice run, didn't we,boys?"

He accepted their tail wagging as agreement and led them into the space that served as our laundry room, pantry, and canine living quarters. He returned a few minutes later and busied himself with preparing a bowl ofoatmeal.

I set a pair of mugs, a jar of cold brew coffee, and a jug of milk on the countertop beside my father. "I take it you and Judy had a pleasant evening," I said as I filled mycup.

He shot me a quick glance from the corner of his eye. Yeah. He knew. He knew exactly what I was talking about. "Yes, pleasant," he replied. "Your mother enjoys watching that singing competition program. She missed it while we wereoverseas."

"Singing competition. Mmhmm." Keeping my eyes on him, I returned the milk and coffee to the refrigerator. "I'm sure it was thesinging competitionthat woke Abby aroundmidnight."

My father had the decency to look contrite, though I wasn't certain I'd observed that reaction from him before this moment. That was how it went with old-school SEALs likehim.

"I'll make sure your mother turns it down," hesaid.

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