Page 12 of Unexpectingly Happily Ever After

The teacher in me frowns on encouraging it, and we tabled the discussion without coming to a resolution. Hopefully, it won’t be an issue again.

He places a shot glass in front of the little bruiser, with her adorable red curls and mischievous eyes. Both Sophie and Ben have inherited J.B.’s brown eyes, with Lucy sharing my trait of one blue, one hazel eye. “Two ounces of gin, please,” J.B. instructs.

″Is that how much James Bond drinks?” Sophie wants to know.

″And why do you teach them about James Bond?” I wonder aloud. “He’s not the most kid-friendly character.”

Sophie runs her hand along an imaginary table. “He’s smooth, Momma. As cool as the other side of the pillow.”

″Is that what you teach them?” I ask faintly.

″A knowledge of James Bond will only help the kids in any trivia game,” J.B. reassures me as he dribbles vermouth into the glass. “Now we plop the olives in the glass.” J.B. holds the jar out for Sophie.

I laugh as both Sophie and J.B. make plopping sound effects as the olives sink into the gin.

″And now we add a couple of spoonfuls of the juice from the olives because Momma likes it dirty.”

J.B. glances at me over Sophie’s head and wiggles his eyebrows. I smile primly in return.

″And now we stir.” J.B. hands Sophie a plastic stir stick and she attacks her task with gusto. Gin spills over the side of the glass. “That’s good,” he says hastily, waving her away before I lose more of the drink before I get to drink it.

″Let’s give her more olives,” Sophie suggests.

″And another for you?”

″Okay! One for Momma,” Sophie adds another to my glass, and the alcohol wavers just under the brim. “And one for me.” She pops it into her mouth.

″Thanks for helping, Super Soph,” J.B. says, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

″Anytime, Daddy.” She throws her arms around his waist and gives him a squeeze before running out of the room.

The love on his face warms my heart.

He takes a sip before passing me the glass. “She makes a good martini.”

″She’s learned fromthe best.”

″Either they’re going to have a drinking problem or they’re never going to touch the stuff,” he says.

″Hopefully a happy medium between the two.”

Once I’m content with my drink, J.B. turns back to his dinner preparations, scooping up the julienned vegetables and throwing them in the pan. The smell of garlic reminds me of a time, long ago, when I sat and watched J.B. cook for me. He made a spicy pork stir-fry for me that night. Tonight its chicken.

It seems like yesterday but feels like a lifetime ago.

We made a family. A pretty good one.

″Why can’t you go to Vegas?” J.B. asks out of nowhere.

He asks that just as I’m taking a sip of my martini. I’m so surprised that I choke, spraying gin over my hand holding the glass. Such a waste.

″You’re telling me to get on a plane and fly to Vegas just because Brit tells me to? I have work, kids, soccer games; you have work, kids…There’s no way I can do it.”

I keep my voice incredulous, rather than let the regret seep in.

I’m not sure why I would feel regret. This will be Brit’s fourth wedding, which means she’s already had three bachelorette/stagette/adult showers involving copious amounts of alcohol and organized by yours truly.

Or at least, I followed the detailed instructions Brit gave me.

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