Page 75 of Knocked Up in Alaska

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Ri-rah!”

“Hello, K’eyush. Hey.” Lilah eased through the unlocked front door and knelt in the airy entryway of Trace and Izzy’s house, returned the enthusiastic greeting from the dog. After receiving an acceptable amount of love from her, Key started sniffing around her and her big diaper-bag-slash-tote-bag-slash-everything bag, searching for the tiny hooman so often in her company nowadays. “Aaay-rah,” he whined, confirming her suspicion.

“No. Sorry.” She scratched his fluffy cheeks. “No Shayla tonight. I’ll bring her by soon for a playdate, ’kay?”

Key nosed her chin and barked, as if to say, Hecking yeah.

Trace strode into the entryway and caught the dog by the collar. “Hey now, let Lilah stand up. Go see Izzy for a treat.”

At the “T” word, the dog trotted off toward the kitchen, tail high and wagging. She got to her feet, but before she could offer a greeting, Trace said, “My turn,” and pulled her in for a quick hug. Suddenly enveloped in laundry-fresh cotton and bar soap, she barely heard his murmured, “Thanks for coming.”

“Hands off the judge,” Archer called from behind Trace and muscled him away so he could get a hug in as well. This time ultralight cashmere and a hint of some sophisticated scent surrounded her. “Don’t let him intimidate you, Lilah. Just pick the best blanket. He’ll get over the humiliating loss.”

When Archer stepped away, Trace shook his head at the other man. “He’s got a real blind spot when it comes to his knitmanship.” Winging one dark brow at her, he went on. “Feel free to be brutally honest when you tell him I won the blanket challenge.”

She took a nervous step back, shrugged the bag strap off her shoulder, and left it on the low wooden bench in the entryway. “Oh, no. I’m not here to judge. Izzy promised—”

“I did,” she confirmed as she rounded the corner. “Don’t you worry.” She squeezed past the men and took Lilah’s arm to lead her into the spacious white kitchen with light blue accents. “That’s a nice color on you,” Izzy said.

“Thanks,” she replied and smoothed her pale pink short-sleeve sweater down over her white linen shorts. “I’m finally fitting in most of my before-baby clothes. I like that dark blue on you.”

Izzy laughed and gave the short, roomy dress with white embroidered flowers around the shoulder skimming neckline a swoosh. “I’m finally starting to not fit in mine.”

“You wish,” Bridget teased from her post at the wide, marble-topped island, where she poured fizzy water from a large green bottle into two tumblers full of ice. She handed one to Izzy. “I’ve yet to see a bump.”

Izzy turned to the side, flattened her dress against her body, and bowed her spine so her stomach took center stage. “You don’t see anything? Seriously?”

“Nope.” Bridget shook her head. “And I have to say, I expected you to show early, considering you’re baking this guy’s big old bun in your tiny little oven.” She jerked a thumb at her brother.

While Izzy grumbled, Bridget offered Lilah the other tumbler of water. “Funny thing, pregnancy. The one time telling someone they don’t look fat gets you the stink-eye.”

“Thanks,” she said and took that glass. “Well, I won’t be mad if you tell me I don’t look pregnant.”

“You don’t,” Bridget assured her, “except for…” She gestured at her own chest. Even her slouchy, wide-necked T-shirt draped beautifully over her bikini-model boobs.

“Since I’m not judging the blankets, or anything else tonight, I’m going to refrain from passing judgment on that observation.”

Bridget laughed. “I call ’em as I see ’em.”

Lilah rolled her eyes, then looked around, but saw nobody besides her four hosts. “So, who is going to judge?”

“Yeah.” Trace straightened from digging two bottles of beer from the fridge and glanced at Izzy. “Who’s judging? Not Bridget. She’s biased.” He twisted caps off and handed a bottle to Archer.

Archer sent a sexy smile toward his fiancée. “I don’t think you’re biased, Bridge. I think your smart and discerning.” He tapped the center of his chest and mouthed, Pick mine.

She laughed. “Nice try, but I’m not the judge, either.”

Trace looked around the kitchen, then lowered his brows and turned to his bride, who concentrated on putting the finishing touches on a tray of fruit, cheese, and chocolate-dipped pretzels. “We’re not letting the dog decide, are we?”

“He is awfully smart,” she teased.

“I have to mention that Key’s criteria would be based less on the merits of the workmanship and more on which one looked most inviting to drag around with him, slobber on, and/or piss on. At which point, I don’t think Shayla’s going to want it.”

“That’s true,” Lilah agreed with a smile. “Even though you pretty much summed up what Shayla does with her blankets, he could keep it after that.”

“It’s not the dog.” Izzy shook her head. “Come on, guys. This is so obvious. Who’s the best judge of the blankets?” When nobody answered, she lifted her hands in disbelief. “The baby, of course. Shayla will decide which blanket she likes best.”

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