“Yeah, but they complained about it, like… a lot. Like… all the time. That says wuss,” Brand disagreed.

“Can’t argue with that,” Creed muttered and I silently concurred.

Kara put the pizzookie on the hot pad, Creed opened the freezer to get out the ice cream and I stared at the pizzookie, mentally making it my first priority to hit King Soopers and buy cookie dough and ice cream when I got home.

“Totally,” Kara muttered after her father, now reaching for spoons. “It’s too hot,” she fake whined. “I feel the heat coming through my shoes.” She looked at me as she handed me a spoon and went on, “We don’t complain the ocean’s too salty when we go visit them.”

Brand snorted before he said, “The ocean’s too salty. I am so totally using that when we go back to Maine.”

“And the air’s too heavy,” Kara added.

“And the breeze is too breezy,” Brand put in on a boy mini-giggle.

“How about the Creeds don’t bellyache or even pretend to be wusses but suck it up like true Creeds?” Creed suggested, turning away from the fridge.

Kara grinned at her brother, handed him a spoon and all got quiet as Creed arrived with the ice cream, opened it up, scooped it out and piled it on.

I watched him do this with avid fascination.

Holy shit.

Seriously.

I was full of noodles and I still was considering taking all three of them out so I could have that shit all to myself.

Five minutes later, I would lament I didn’t make this move. This was because, with what was clearly abundant practice, the three Creeds fell on that pizzookie like chocolate chip cookie dough was being outlawed the next day. It was every man and his spoon for himself. With difficulty, spoons clinking against spoons, I got a load on mine and got it in my mouth but before I got it back to the pan, swear to God, more than half the pizzookie was gone.

Apparently, Creed gently drilling manners into his children did not include allowing the guest to have a head start on the pizzookie or even a clear go (or two).

As I was trying quickly to form a strategy to get my spoon in there, I heard Creed order with mouth full, “Don’t be shy, baby.”

I made the mistake of looking at him to see him grinning, mouth still full, then he swallowed and honed back in on the pan. By the time my eyes got back there, I estimated there were approximately five bites left.

“Can’t be shy when pizzookie is on the line,” Brand murmured his advice then shoved pizzookie in his mouth, Kara and Creed’s spoons scooped out more and I went in, got a load and hoisted it to my mouth.

By the time I went back, mouth barely having taken its first chew, it was all gone.

I’d had two bites and the entire ten inch cake pan was full when we started.

I looked around the island at the chewing, grinning Creeds, the young male version having melted chocolate and cookie crumbs on his lips.

Okay, right.

I might only have had two bites but next time, I’d do better. Definitely.

And I liked this pizzookie crazy family.

Seriously.

* * * * *

“What’d I say?”

This was Creed, on his back in his bed, me straddling him, his hands on my bare ass, his c**k still inside me and we’d just spent several minutes, hands groping, faces nuzzling, post-orgasm.

I stopped licking his neck and lifted my head to look down at him.

After pizzookie and some Diamondbacks baseball, I’d left under enthusiastic, heartwarmingly authentic, “See you later, Sylvies,” from Kara and Brand. Then, three hours later, I came back to have sex and sleep with Creed.

Now he was asking me a question and I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“What?” I asked.

His hands slid from my ass, up my back, out over my ribs then up, up, up to frame my face. “The kids. They like you.”

“Not enough to give me a clear go at the pizzookie.”

Creed grinned.

I kept talking but quieter.

“Kids tend to like thirty-four year old women who go all out in a squirt gun fight and don’t mind looking stupid and accidentally running into the pelican that shoots water out of its mouth.”

One of his hands moved down to curl around my neck. The other one slid into my hair at the side, through it and down the back where his arm ended curling around me as he replied, “Yeah, they do. Being a big goof goes down good with kids but it was more than that, baby. They just like you.”

I hoped his latter words were true but I was stuck on his earlier words.

“I’m not a big goof. I’m a badass even with a squirt gun. I totally kicked both their asses.”

“Baby, you ran into that pelican and they nailed you,” he reminded me.

“Sure, but I recovered and rallied huge.”

His grin came back. “Yeah, and that’s when I nailed you.”

My eyes narrowed, “Creed, hot stuff, you didn’t nail me until ten minutes ago.”

His grin got bigger. “I nailed you then, too.”

I disagreed. “It was totally a tie in the squirt gun fight.”

He disagreed with me disagreeing. “I kicked your ass. You were drenched.”

“You did not, the pelican kicked my ass,” I shot back.

His body started shaking under mine as he asked, “Seriously? You’re okay with the fake pelican squirting water out of its mouth kicking your ass and you’re not okay with me doing it?”

Absolutely.

Seeing as this could go on all night, I decided to put a stop to it by announcing, “Paintball tiebreaker when we get back to Denver.”

“Beautiful, I don’t play at business unless I got swim trunks on and my kids with me.”

The breath went out of me at his calling me “beautiful”. Something he hadn’t done in sixteen years. Something I loved back then. Something I missed. Something I loved having back so much, it hurt.

“Sylvie?” he called.

I focused through the exquisite pain and saw the amusement had faded from his face and his eyes were intent on me.

I didn’t share.

I just whispered, “Then, baby, you’re missing out. Business is business and fun is fun and paintball is a freaking blast.”

He ignored me and asked, “Where were you?”

I knew what he was asking but I didn’t answer. Instead, I told him, “I’m right here, with you.”