Page 601 of The Winslow Brothers

Daisy’s voice drifts in from the living room. “I swear, if my kitchen floor is dirty after I just mopped it this morning, I’m signing both of you up for summer camp! And not a good one either! One where they make you churn butter and knit scarves and readMoby Dick!”

Roman snorts, the word dick clearly too much for his semi-developed brain to handle. I flash him a very knowing, very I’m-going-to-kick-your-ass-if-you-don’t-clean-this-up stare, and both he and Ryder scramble to their feet like they’ve just been caught in a high-stakes heist, rushing to grab a broom and start cleaning.

As the two wrestling stooges sweep the floor, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to realize I’ve missed a hell of a lot of messages in the ongoing group chat with my brothers and a few of our closest friends.

Thatch: Poker night is at my place tonight, and not a single one of you fucks has RSVP’d.

Jude: RSVP’d? What the fuck are you talking about? Pretty sure we just show up if we can make it…

Thatch: How am I supposed to know how big of a char-coochie board to make if I don’t have a head count?

Ty: You mean charcuterie? Ha. What the hell are you on about, T?

Thatch: No, I mean CHAR-COOCHIE. Fancy meat, cheese, fruit, and veggies, shaped in an ode to my wife’s perfect kitty. ;)

Kline: Dear God.

Thatch: Plus, I have a big surprise planned…

Wes: You making us fucking charcuterie is one thing, T, but you being anywhere in the vicinity of a “surprise” is another. Tell me I’m not going to end up in a Ponzi scheme, police car, strippergram, or porn set with you and your wife’s charcoochie as the star, or I’m not coming.

Kline: I’m with Wes, man. The last time I was involved with a surprise that you planned, Georgia and I ended up with a mariachi band following us around.

Thatch: Fuck you both. You better be there. And you fucking Winslows better be at my place tonight too.

Remy: Relax, man. I’ll be there.

Jude: I’m in too. And I call dibs on Ty’s chips if he ghosts you.

Ty: Nice try, fucker. I’ll be there.

Jude: Then I call dibs on Flynn’s chips. If anyone is going to be MIA, it’s that mysterious bastard.

I chuckle as I start to type out a response, but another loud thud makes me snap my head up.

Ryder is on the ground again.

Roman looks down at him, blinking. “Oops.”

Ryder groans. “You aggressively hugged me too hard, dude.”

“All right, enough,” I say, stepping in and hauling Ryder back up to his feet. “New rule—no more hugging.”

“Whaaaaaaat?” Roman tilts his head. “We can’t hug each other anymore? We’re brothers, Dad. That’s, like, child abuse.”

“Yeah, Dad. What’s next? We can’t hug you or Mom?” Ryder agrees. “People, like, call CDS for that kind of stuff.”

“CPS, dude,” I correct and immediately hold out my cell toward the two smartasses. “And would you like to borrow my phone to call them? I’ll pack your suitcases while they make arrangements for you to live with your new family.”

Roman rolls his eyes just as Daisy is walking in, her arms crossed, her beautiful face pinched up in an expression that’s very much unimpressed. “Cut the bullshit and clean up the mess. I carried both of your big heads in my body for nine months and I’d prefer to not have to give you away to a new family, but I will.”

“Listen to your mom.” I back her up.

Both boys groan, but they do eventually listen. And as Daisy and I make our way back to the living room, I wrap my arm around her waist and kiss the top of her head. “God, we’re in trouble with those two.”

Daisy laughs and stands up on her tippy-toes to press a kiss to my lips. “Oh, babe, we’ve been in trouble since they learned to walk.”

I pull her into my arms and kiss her again. But the warmth and feel of my wife’s beautiful body is like a live wire, and my cock’s response is instantaneous. “You think it’s child abuse if we lock them in their rooms so you can ride my cock?” I whisper against her lips, and she giggles.

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