Page 53 of That Reunited Feeling

All I can feel is his mouth on mine. The way our lips slotted right back together, like they remembered exactly where they were going. Except this time, it was even better. This time we knew what we were doing, what we wanted.

And oh, good God, when his hand slid over my ass and he reached up between my legs.

The mere thought of his hands and mouth on me make me wet all over again.

Shit.

Is Rachel right—am I in trouble?

No. We’re both adults now. We know what we’re doing. So of course not.

It’s like my smart son said, if you know someone’s going to leave, then you’re not upset when they go.

15

TOM

“B

est burger in the city.” Max, my eldest cousin, nudges his empty plate across the heavy wooden table and picks up his beer.

Max, Connor, Elliot, Walker, and I are sitting in the private dining room of Walker’s craft brewpub in Brooklyn. The bare brick walls are adorned with antique brewing paraphernalia and black-and-white photos of the building’s industrial history.

“And when was the last time the brousins were all together like this, just us?” Max asks.

His use ofbrousins—our hybrid ofbrothersandcousins—elicits a groan from Connor. “Haven’t we grown out of that yet?”

“I don’t even remember who came up with it,” Elliot says.

The term was spawned after Walker and I went to live with Maggie and Jim. Overnight, their three sons—our three cousins, the men sitting around this table with Walker and me—accepted us like brothers. And sobrousinswas born.

“Just because I’ve attended via video chat, rather than in person, doesn’t mean I’ve not been to all the family gatherings,” I protest.

“Well, it’s good to have you in town.” Walker shoves his final french fry into his mouth and raises his glass toward me.

“And I’m glad we’re together with no one else around,” Max says, returning to his original point, “because I have an announcement.”

“What global enterprise have you bought now?” Connor asks, lounging back in his chair.

“Not in the slightest bit work related,” Max says.

Instantly, the rest of us all react the same way—exaggerated gasps and shocked faces.

“All right, all right,” Max says. “You’re definitely going to have to get used to me having something other than work to talk about.”

“Other than work or Polly, you mean?” Elliot asks.

“Or her mom’s goats,” Connor adds.

“Those goats can actually be cute as fucking hell,” Max says. “But no, it’s not about goats. It is kind of about Polly, though.”

The other four of us exchange knowing glances. We can all guess what’s coming, but none of us would dream of ruining his moment.

“We are expecting a baby.” Max, the man who owns a Manhattan skyscraper, God knows how many household-name companies, and a fucking helicopter, has never looked as proud, as satisfied, and as happy to his bones as he does right now.

He holds up his hands to quiet Connor’s wolf whistles. “It’s early days yet. She’s only eight weeks. Due at the end of August. But since we’re together, I wanted to tell you.”

We all get to our feet for the congratulations and the hugs and the backslapping, and Walker asks a server to bring us abottle of twenty-five-year-old Macallan whisky from behind the bar.

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