“She’s not your baby.” Lo swats my butt playfully. “She’s mine.”
“She’s our baby,” Annie says diplomatically.
Tim gets the camera close and catches the exact moment Naomi’s eyes blink open and then widen as she sees Ren. “All right,” Tim says. “Got it!”
I step closer and set my head on Ren’s bicep. It’s like a pillow. If a pillow was solid muscle carved out of stone. Still, he smells spicy and clean, like the soap he used while showering this morning. I brushed my teeth extra long so I could watch the top half of his body not hidden by the steam, muscles bunching and flexing as he washed himself.
“She likes him,” Mia says smugly. “And look at his face. Ren’s got baby fever, too.”
I roll my eyes. But when I look back at him, Ren’s gaze meets mine, the smallest smile tipping his lips.
A smile that’s not bright as sunbeams or wide as the ocean. Not the smile for fans or grandmas or passersby. A small, knowing smile.
For me.
“Okay.” Ren parks the van and blows air from his cheeks in a slow, steady stream. “I’m not going to lie, my family’s weird and overwhelming. I’m one of the rowdy ones, and I still find us too intense sometimes. So, if you just need somewhere quiet to slip away, I’ll show you my old room, and you can take whatever time you need. That’s the nice thing about my family, they won’t be remotely insulted if you tell them to their face that you need a break from them. Willa’s done it dozens of times—”
I clasp his hand, curling my fingers around his. “It’s okay, Ren. I know I can tell you if it’s too much. I’m sure everything will be fine.”
Ren laughs uneasily. “Yeah. Right. Okay.”
“Hey.” Cupping his face in my hands, I give him a slow, thorough kiss. When we break apart, he sighs, dropping his forehead to mine.
“Thanks,” he whispers. “I needed that.”
I reach for one more kiss. “Me, too.”
Rounding the car, he opens my door as always, then offers his arm.
There’s a slight hill from where he parked, and he’s glaring at it. “They should have left me a space up front.”
“Why?”
Ren throws up a hand. “For you. So that you don’t have to walk all this way. Here, I’ll carry you—”
“Okay, Zenzero. Time-out.”
Ren spins, hands on his hips, and if he weren’t so preciously worked up, I’d find it a very intimidating stance.
“You don’t scare me with that Big Red gun show, so just relax.”
He drops his arms. “I want this to be nice for you.” He gestures to the house again. “And we’re starting it off with a quarter-mile walk to the house. You put on a tough show, Frankie, but I know walking on stuff like this hurts you. And you’re hurting right now.”
“Eh. I have the Elder Wand, and I’ll grab your arm if I’m about to biff it. Okay?”
He sighs. “Fine.”
I take his arm to placate him. Immediately, he squeezes it to his side.
Ren tugs his ball cap lower and scratches his neck. “It’ll be fine,” he says, as if to himself.
I smile up at him. “Exactly.”
The walk isn’t terrible, but Ren’s not wrong. My hip would have been happier without having gone that far on uneven ground. Ren doesn’t knock, doesn’t hesitate, just throws open the front door of the house and yells something in Swedish that I don’t understand.
A chorus of the same phrase echoes back, making me startle.
He grins down at me. “I told you we’re weird.”
“You’re here! Finally. You’re late.” Ren’s mom strides toward me, hugging me hard.
“Oh—” I start to say, but Ren cuts in.
“Mom, I told you I had a practice.” He catches my eye and sighs. I was forewarned that his mother is brutally blunt. I reassured him blunt is the last thing that’s going to bother me. “Hey,” he says to his mom. “Easy on her.”
Elin’s hands loosen. “Right. Sorry! I hug hard. But you—” She clasps my shoulders lightly, pinning me with the same wintry eyes she gave her son. “I must be gentle with you.”
Ren massages the bridge of his nose.
“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Bergman—”
“Oh, just Elin. Please,” she says on a bright smile.
I tap Ren’s stomach. “You have my purse.”
“Ah. Right.” Sliding my bag off his other arm, he hands it to me.
I have to set it down so I can grip the straps, pull them open, and extract the wine I brought. Straightening, I swallow a groan of discomfort in my back and hand her the bottle. “Thank you.”
“How kind.” Elin takes it, gives me a smile, and then slinks her arm in mine. “You take my arm, now, Frankie.”
My eyes travel to the wide-open room. The massive, rough-hewn dining table. Clean lines, the expansive kitchen, and then to the right, the comically big sectional sofa. Noise centers in the kitchen filled entirely with women, bringing me to a nervous stop.
Elin glances over at me. “We don’t normally divide like this, but they all just finished a football game, and while the women were ready for a cocktail, the men didn’t want to stop playing. Why don’t you join us? We’re just making drinks now.”
I smile nervously at Ren over my shoulder. Ren smiles softly back.
“Frankie!” Willa jumps up from her stool and gives me a hug. “You just missed a massacre. We kicked their butts, didn’t we?”
“Yes, we did,” Ziggy says, a soft smile brightening her face. She opens her arms first, so I know it’s okay for me to step into them.
“Happy birthday, Ziggy,” I whisper. As I step back, I set a wrapped package in her hands.
“What is it?” she asks.
“Open it.”
Ziggy drops it on the counter, tears off the paper. She squeals. “It just came out! Mom, Frankie got me Book Six! Oh my gosh.”
When we last talked, Ziggy told me about this fantasy romance series she was tearing through, so I got her the next in the series, which just came out last week. Jumping up and down, she lunges herself at me and hugs me hard. “Thank you so much.”
I hug her back. “You’re welcome, Ziggy.”
Sighing happily, she clutches it to her chest. “Oh! And did you see I’m wearing the clothes we ordered? Just changed into them from my soccer stuff.”
I give her a once-over. Black leggings that fit down to her ankles. An emerald-green T-shirt that matches her eyes. “You look great, Ziggy.”
She blushes bright pink. “Thanks. It’s so comfy.”
“Good.” I squeeze her arm gently, before turning to Freya, who I’ve only met once before. She’s almost her mother’s copy. Sharp, striking features. Pale eyes, wavy white-blonde hair worn just past her chin.
“Hi.” I offer my hand. “I’m Frankie.”
“I remember,” she says. “Freya.” Her voice is smoky, and while I can’t read her expression, her voice seems tinged with sadness. She shakes my hand gently, not squeezing, which isn’t surprising. She’s a physical therapist, Ren said. She’d know to take it easy. “It’s nice to finally meet you, not just wave hi in the stadium.”