Page 292 of Trouble from Abroad
“No?” I deadpan, as though a four-story plastic mansion isn’t already overkill.
“I’ll have to file for an extension just to fit that monstrosity in here.”
Liam ignores me. Of course he does. He slides a Tiffany’s box across the table. “Which is why I also got myprincessthis.” From the corner of my eye, I see April dropping her head.
Inside, there’s a real diamond tiara, delicate and sparkling, fit for actual royalty. My daughter gasps so loud the neighbors might’ve heard it.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath to April. “We agreed your manchild fiancé isn’t allowed to shop for my daughter unsupervised.”
April throws her hands up. “Don’t look at me. I had no idea about this.”
I shake my head, watching Lily twirl in her tiara, Barbie box forgotten. Not the first outrageous gift I’ve had to return on her behalf. Won’t be the last either, I’m sure.
Still, her joy is undeniable.
Mia and I agreed already that our gifts for Lily wait until morning. Heractualbirthday. And I can’t stop listing in my head all the new family traditions I hope we’ll be starting tomorrow.
The house hums with laughter long after the last gift’s been unwrapped.
Hours later, after enough scrubbing to qualify as a full-body workout, the unicorn crime scene almost passes for my home again—and we sit for dinner. I prepared something healthy and hearty yesterday, waiting only to be roasted today. Lily’s showered and in her pajamas, still highon frosting and adrenaline, prancing from couch to couch while the ladies silently pop the last stray balloons.
I’m stacking leftover cupcakes into a box when Mia sneaks one from the tray.
“Careful,” I warn, “that’s one of the emergency cupcakes.”
She arches a brow. “Emergency cupcakes?”
“For when I realize what we’ve done to this place and need a reason to keep living.”
She grins and takes a bite of it anyway, frosting landing around her lips. I reach over and wipe the corner of her mouth with my thumb before I can think better of it. She sticks her tongue out to lick both the frosting and my finger.
My thumb drags a little slower than it should—soft, lingering.
She freezes at the sound of Callie’s gasp, and so do I.
Then Lily calls, “Miaaaa, storytime,” and bolts for the stairs, leaving frosting casualties—aka me—and chaos behind.
Mia steps back, cheeks flushed. “I’ll, uh, go tuck her in.”
“Right.” My throat feels rough. “Of course.”
Calista’s standing by the counter, mid-sip of champagne, eyes wide, mouth curved into that shark grin I know too damn well. Her gaze flicks between us like she’s watching a telenovela finale unfold. One with a plot twist.
I cough, too loud, trying to reset the moment. “Cupcake crumb,” I say. “A big one.”
Liam is washing something off his tie in the sink. April is blissfully checking her pager and texting someone back, thumbs flying on the screen. But Mia’s about tochoke for real. She points at me once, twice, finds no words, flashes us a shaky grin, and runs upstairs after Lily.
The second she’s gone, Callie looks around, waving her glass. “Really? Nobody saw that? April?” Her eyes double in size. “April motherfucking Hadden? Can you check back in, please?”
I brace. Nothing good ever starts with Callie using full names. But April doesn’t even look up. “What are you two fighting about now?”
I shoot Cal a warning look—one that usually works in the hospital. Apparently, it has zero effect in my own home.
“April,come on. You’re supposed to be the genius here,” Callie goes on, sloshing her drink as she gestures, then she turns to me. “I’m not even mad, you know. I’m justdeeply offendedthat you’d deprive me of gossip.” She angles her body away for half a second, chin lifted. “No, scratch that.” She whips back around, eyes wet-bright with sadness, voice too sharp to announce anything but danger. “Fuck you. Iammad. I’m fucking livid. You don’t get to heal and keep that from me.”
“Calista.” My tone slices through her dramatization of facts. This is my life we’re talking about. “It’s none of your business. Quit it.”
“Of course it’s my business.” She waves her empty glass, pointing at everyone present. “It’sourbusiness.” She puts the flute down and crosses her arms, expression softening just enough to make the next part hit hard. “You don’t get to call me family, expect me to show up at ungodly hours to clean your vomit, cover for your hospital disasters, and then… What? Cut me out when you finally stop being miserable? Absolutely not, you fucking bastard. You don’t get to glow and not let us bask in it.”
