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“Bad people coming, Dada?”

The lines across his brow get some friends in the frissons across my heart.

“No, son. It’s not like that.” I slide my hands down, surrounding both of his with them. “Just some visitors we didn’t expect, who might be confused about what Mis and Ira are doing here. They might ask some questions we can’t answer right now—and until we can officially adopt your sisters, we want to make sure nobody tries to take them away from us.”

His responding rage is palpable, his eyes glowing like caution lights and his veins pulsing a rich cobalt. “I’ll beat ’em up, Dada. Hard!”

“Okay, nobody’s getting beaten up tonight.” It’s an effort to punch my tone with rebuke instead of high-fiving my little stud with pride, but I give myself a mental back pat for doing the responsible adulting thing. “Right now, I need you to be my big helper hero, okay? Lead the girls by example.”

“Example? What’s that mean, Dada?”

“Well…” I give in to a full grin. “In this case, it’s pretty easy. Just show them how we like to party down here, okay?”

“Yeah! Okay!”

At once, the kid launches into a flawless shoot dance, while singing “Don’t Stop the Party” complete with hand motions and an “autotuned” voice. He’s roused into more by hand claps that synch to his beat, and I swing a stunned stare to watch Foley—Foley!—join in on the freaky dance. The claps are coming from Lydia, who sidles up and finally elbows me enough times that I’m joining into the syncopated applause. Even the twins halt their screams long enough to watch the guys bang out a freaky-fly routine, though they return to the exact same spot they were in—somewhere between mild dread cookies and full-blown spazzcakes—as soon as Lux and Foley finish off the routine by parkouring into backflips and then sticking their landings with “ta-da” poses.

“What the hell, Folic Acid?” I demand at once. “You been sneaking out for nights at the raves with the cool kids?”

A snort from the surfer stud who’s just danced as if auditioning for a Black-Eyed Peas video. “News flash, Bolt-a-zoid. Your son is a cool kid.” He turns his hands out and shrugs, looking like a fifteen-year-old caught teaching the preacher’s kid to smoke. “What? You think we spend all our training time just training?”

“Like you’re supposed to be?”

My comeback gets another chuff from his direction, along with an eye roll. The combination is enough to garner a belly laugh from Lux, with the trickle-down effect of stopping Mis’s and Ira’s sobs. For the first time ever, I’m tempted to reward the bastard for his insolence with a crushing hug—but I don’t dare tip the room’s energy balance that way. Hopefully, the Sawyer and Lydia show is off to a positive start, especially when the girls finally peer over at the cookie assembly counter with interest.

“Bolt Jolt. Dude.” Lydia looks ready to give my ribs another “love tap” from her elbow but sticks to a fun-filled shoulder bump instead. “We got this for now. Go turn on the charm for your guests.”

Hefty snort. “Guests,” I scoff. “Who had the ‘manners’ to give us a fifteen-minute warning on their approach?”

She beams a shit-eating grin. “Which is why you’re called the Sultan of Smooth and I’m down here frosting cookies, baby.”

Narrowed glare. “I’ve never been called that.”

“Well, you are now.”

“So that would make Emma the Sultana of…”

“Patience.” She’s ready with that answer, in all its sincere reverence, before any of us can blink twice. “Especially when it comes to our whacknut of a maternal creature.”

“Who’s unleashing the crazytown Kraken on my wife as we speak,” I return.

“Which means you gotta bolt, lightning boy.” She shoos me with a spoon overloaded by a gob of lavender frosting. When a chunk of the stuff drops off, spattering across her sweatshirt emblazoned with Cute but Psycho, it’s enough to make me add a smug smirk to my reluctant departure.

“As you wish, Princess Purple Psycho.”

I’m not sure if it’s my comeback or ’Dia’s growl that makes Lux and the twins bust out with new laughs, but I’m grateful no matter what as I back away from the happy scene—every cell in my body hating that I’m not a part of it while every neuron in my spirit prays the positive ju-ju will carry through for at least a couple of hours.

A couple of hours?

And just what kind of crack was I smoking, thinking Laurel would limit their cute little drop-in to a hundred and twenty silly minutes?

Even with our cover story that “Luke” has gone for a sleepover at Unca Saw Saw and Auntie ’Dia’s place—not a lie, if it’s stretched by just a little—Emma’s mother has insisted on a full tour of the house, with special attention to the minor improvements we’ve made, as well as enjoying the sunset over drinks out on the terrace. During that time, both Kainalu and Aliz have arrived and been introduced, fortunately having already received my texts that they’re to be as general as possible about sharing details of any kind with Laurel. Though I didn’t disclose too many details why, I deduced that both of them would discover that for themselves after three minutes in the woman’s presence—but shockingly, Laurel goes by for much longer stretches without invoking the almighty name of goddess Faline.

Soon, I recognize that the disparity is just as obvious to Emma as me—an observation she finally gets a chance to vocalize when her mother wanders off to the kitchen on a quest to ask Anya about the artichoke and feta bites that were brought out along with our twilight cocktails. As soon as the two women are busy discussing gluten-free chips and alternatives to sugared coffee creamer, Emma grabs her father by the elbow to guide him into the sanctuary of our home office. While the room isn’t soundproof, it’s in the middle of the wing that’s separated from the rest of the house by a large chunk of the cliff, adding some natural privacy to the setting.

“All right, Grandpy Todd, what’s the four-one-one here?” she presses. “I had to mention Faline first? And Mother actually looked constipated about it for a second?”

“And thank you for that perfect visual, darling.” Todd’s cocked brow and arid tone convey the man’s own knowledge about being a Sultan of Smooth. “But even with the colorful help, I’m afraid I haven’t got a clue about your mother’s new frostbite about Fa-Fa.”