Page 91 of Beautiful Mess

“Alright,” Conway cuts in, keeping his tone light as he points to Blakely. “Out with it, missy.”

The scowl on his face that’s fake, based on the way he’sclearlybiting back a grin, makes the girls laugh again before Blakely finally says to him, “We saw you kissing my mom in the kitchen.”

“You did?” I ask, my pulse racing. “When?”

Blakely shrugs. “I dunno. It was a while ago.”

“Okay…” Conway and I share a look across the table. I don’t really know what to make of that, so glancing at the kids, I ask, “And so, how do you guys feel about Conway and I being together?”

“Are you kidding?” Blakely blurts out. “Willow and I get to besisters! That is so cool!”

“The coolest!” Willow adds.

“Um, okay. Well, that’s good. I’m happy you two think it’s thecoolest.” Glancing at my son, I ask, “What about you, Beau? How are you feeling about all of this? And it’s more than okay if you aren’t sure yet.”

Mouth curling into a smile, he shrugs. “Guess I’m with them,” he says, gesturing toward his sister and Willow. “It’s cool.”

My eyebrows shoot up, a grin sliding into place. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But I don’t want to share a room with either of them.” Conway barks out a laugh at that, and I can’t help but join him. Beau’s looks from me to Conway, eyebrows pinched. “I’m serious,” he adds, which somehow makes me laugh harder.

“I know you are, babe,” I assure him. “We aren’t moving in together. That’s a pretty big step, and we aren’t there just yet, but I promise you, when we do get there, we aren’t going to ask you to share your room.”

Slouching back into the chair, Beau heaves a sigh like this was a genuine concern for him. “Okay, good. Then it’s cool.”

“Well, glad everyone can agree that it’s cool,” I quip.

A moment later, the kids get back to eating as the girls jump into an animated discussion about something that happened at school today with one of their friends, and just like that, it’s done. The kids know, they think it’s cool, and we’re moving on. My gaze slides over to Conway, finding him already watching me, a smirk tugged on his lips, and I know exactly what’s going through his mind, because it’s the same thing I’m thinking—that we were worried for nothing, that I spent this past week stressed and obsessing over how we were going to break it to them for no reason.

Yeah, that tracks.

Thirty-Nine

Conway, Six Months Later

The smell of saltwater fills the air as the breeze kicks up, barely taking the edge off the scorching heat beating down on us, and I’m rethinking the patio seating we agreed to. Gaze fixed up ahead, the kids are playing a game of cornhole together, Sutton and Beau dominating against Willow and Blakely, which—obviously—is the end of the world to preteen girls. Between the two of them, they’ve either threatened to stop playing with the boys or accused them of cheating at least half a dozen times in the span of the two games they’ve played together.

Sutton sinks yet another bean bag in the hole, but my attention is pulled from the bickering that’s undoubtedly about to ensue as our server drops off our next round of beers. I take a drink, swallowing down the crisp, chilled IPA.

“Can I get y’all anything else while I’m here?” the server asks, pushing up the broken glasses held together by masking tape with his index finger. He can’t be older than twenty. I’m about to tell him we’re all good, when I’m cut off.

“Can we get a tray of those nachos you brought to that table over there?”

Once the server walks off, Graham blows out a breath, three sets of eyes turning toward him as he says, “Dude, I mean this is the nicest way possible, but how in the fuck are you still hungry?”

“Fuck off,” Fletcher scoffs. “The kids went to town on my mozz sticks. I barely had any.”

Everett and I exchange an amused look, and I do my best to bite back the laugh dying to come out, but lose it when Everett says, “Can you believe that, Conway? Those damn kids ate all hismozz sticks.”

“Who the hell calls them that anyway?” Graham blurts out, the same scowl he’s been wearing all day directed at his stepbrother. “They’re fucking mozzarella sticks.”

“Goddamn, you’re bitchier than usual today. Who pissed in your Cheerios this morning?” Fletcher tosses back, to which Graham responds by flipping him the bird while downing more of his beer.

I throw my head back, barking out a laugh. As much as I hate to agree with that annoying little shit, Fletcher’s right. Graham’s been in a foul mood all day, but he won’t say why. I met Grace’s stepbrother several months back when he moved in with Georgia, after his father cut him off and sent him to live here for an unknown length of time. The kid’s in his mid-twenties, but receiving punishment from his dad like he’s fifteen. It doesn’t make sense to me.

Normally, in small doses, I can deal with being around him just fine, but the four of us guys have been together all day with the kids, and I’ve had more than enough Fletcher for one day. Not only is he an entitled rich brat, he’s also just annoying, like a loud fucking frat guy whose favorite activities are to shotgun beer and flirt with chicks. And yes, he calls themchicks, too. Hand to God, I don’t know how Georgia hasn’t killed him in his sleep yet.

My phone buzzes on the table beside my glass, and I smile as I read the name pop up across the screen.

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