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Archer’s black brows lowered. Jumped right back up again, before he repeated in a rasp, “Holy. Shit.”
Z’s lips quirked. “Warmer…” he teased.
“For…family…”
“Waarmmmer.”
“As in, a bigger one?”
“Red hot, sugar lips.”
“Fucker!” Franz barreled into his buddy with a full embrace.
Zeke snickered. “Yeah. I am that, huh?”
“Congratulations, man.”
Ethan moved in, repeating the gruff hug. “Well, this shit should be fun to watch. Ezekiel Hayes, proud papa man.”
“Yeah, well.” Z raised both hands as if being robbed. “Slow that roll for now. We’re not telling the entire world yet. Rayna’s only five weeks along.”
“Understood,” Archer replied. “But she’s doing great so far?”
“Knock wood.” Zeke dropped one of his hands, bonking it on his head. “Aside from some mild morning sickness, which is why the fridge looks like a Perrier ad, we’re so far, so good.”
“The gods just help the little keiki.” Franz couldn’t resist the jibe. “Especially if it’s a girl.”
One of Z’s brows arched. The hand he’d knocked to his noggin flipped around, middle finger extended. “That so, dragon jizz?”
Ethan tossed his head back on a loud laugh. “Hey, this Franz-ain’t-the-CO shit is kind of fun.”
Franz let his shit-eating grin serve as his agreement to that. “Sorry, Z. But if the shoe fits…”
“Yeah, well.” Zeke gave the counter another smack. “Just remember, you and I are the same shoe size.”
“Only now, we’ll be able to tell the boots apart.” He pointed at his friend’s feet. “Green poop in the soles…” Swung the finger back at his own. “Not a drop of green poop.”
“You’re wearing flip-flops. My flip-flops, I might add. You’re welcome for the loan on all those clothes, by the way.”
“He looks better in them than you,” Archer cracked.
“Yeah?” Z parried. “That’d be harsh—if I gave a shit.” He slung back some more beer. “I do, however, look forward to the day I take green poop recompense on you both.”
Ethan’s response was surprisingly serious. “Soon as I have a couple of movies under my belt, you may be doing exactly that, my friend.”
Zeke grinned. “Outstanding!”
As soon as they both swung gazes to him, John joined the laughter—with a bitter bark. “Don’t look at me for more of that happy-joy-joy.”
“Psshhh,” Zeke volleyed.
“Please,” Archer protested at the same time. “You’ll make a great daddy-o one day and you know it, Franz.”
He set his beer down so hard, the slam reverberated against the stainless-steel appliances. Into the uncomfortable silence that followed, he softly snarled. “Fuck off, okay?”
Great. Who needed infant shit to mess up the floor when there was his psychological baggage to do the job? Nothing like a great cue for getting the hell out—only the second he turned for the door, Archer’s angry voice chomped on the air.
“That’s not an order I have to care about.” Shock of shocks, the guy just got prettier when he was pissed, resembling a Renaissance oil angel as he stalked over. “So too bad, so sad; no fucking off for Runway today.” He halted the approach but braced his stance, balled hands at his sides. “What the hell is up with you?”
