Page 67 of His Relentless Angel

“She’s going to give them cookies, isn’t she?”

I help Bailey rise to her feet and pull her close. “Not a chance,” I say, dipping to kiss her.

“Liar,” she whispers against my lips, tugging on my hideous mustard-yellow Hawaiian shirt Mom gifted me on my birthday that I’ve worn just for her, planning to donate it after my parents drive back to Houston. “She loves spoiling them.”

On cue, our three girls start squealing and clapping their hands from somewhere in the kitchen, all saying thank you, and I sigh. “Seriously unfair. She was a lot stricter with us growing up.”

Bailey laughs. “I’m sure we’ll be the same way with our grandbabies. Come on,” she says, sliding her hand down to grab mine, dragging me along behind her, my gaze once again dipping to her ass as we head outside.

I stop to chat with Dad and Sherman, who are standing at the smoking grill, having a riveting discussion about the pros and cons of Roth IRAs versus a 401k. James nods and tosses me an IPA from the cooler to the left side of the French doors, giving me the polite excuse I need to walk away.

We stand and sip our beers, watching our angels with our mini angels in and around the pool we put in two summers ago that takes up just under half of the left side of our yard. Lainey is pushing Clara and Mirabel on the swings to the right. Mom and Miranda are sipping their massive frozen margaritas at the extra large wooden picnic table in the middle of the yard that James helped me build right after we moved into the house, consulting the YouTube how-to video he found every few minutes. The table is already laden with enough food to feed the county, and Autumn and Brianna haven’t even arrived yet with their dishes.

James bites his fist and groans. “What an angel.”

I shoot him a glare, once again forgetting for a second that he’s not referring to my angel. Shayla has shucked her cover up and does a running jump into the pool’s deep end, where Grayson, Gentry, and Artie are splashing around, trying to dunk each other underwater.

James sucks in a breath as soon as her head breaks the surface. “If I didn’t have a vasectomy, that white bikini could almost talk me into having another kid.”

“Jesus, don’t remind me.” My stomach drops, remembering the terror I was in when I had my procedure done within a year of Bailey giving birth.

“Can we swim now?” Nina tugs on my hand, wiping cookie crumbs from the corner of her mouth, Talia and Mali doing the same with mischievous grins.

James and I set our beers on the picnic table, and he slides into the pool with his family. Bailey and I work together to cover the triplets in sunscreen before I hop in the shallow end with them. Bailey sits on the edge with her feet in the water while we all clap and cheer the girls on as they show off everything they’ve learned in their swim lessons this summer. They compete for who can hold their breath the longest underwater, which is not good for this old man’s heart.

Bailey adjusts her cover up around her stomach, then splashes water on her upper thighs. “It’s hotter than the devil’s a—butt crack out here.” She scoops some water and pats it on the back of her neck after lifting her two Dutch braids.

I pat the surface of the water. “You coming in? Water feels nice.” Plus, I’m eager to see her in the new red bikini she bought and hasn’t worn yet.

She drops her gaze to where she’s slowly kicking her feet. “No, I’m good.”

My brows bunch, but Nina steals my attention, wanting to show off her new dive, knocking about ten years off my life when she tries to do so in the shallow end before I catch her mid-air. For the next hour, I help her, her sisters, and their only slightly older cousin, Clara, out of the water after each dive and cannonball, my arms turned to jelly by the end.

Lunch turns into dinner as more guests show up, including the rest of our families, Martin, Eden, Mara, Ezra, and damn near half the neighbors on our street, drawn by the smell of the steaks Dad and Sherman keep throwing on the grill.

James and Martin ran to Sherman’s house to pick up the extra folding tables and lawn chairs a few hours ago since we ran out, and both our front and back lawns are full of kids screaming and chasing each other with the water balloons Autumn brought. Miranda and Sherman set up their lawn chairs next to us in the front yard, watching our girls and their cousins play.

“I gotta say, I kind of miss this,” Miranda says, smiling and swinging her gaze around the party while she pets our Chihuahua, Aslan, on her lap. The triplets out-voted us when it came time to pick which dog to adopt from the animal shelter. Aslan is an old, nervous beast, but the girls love him to pieces.

Sherman snorts. “I don’t. I’m too old for this kind of ruckus. ‘Bout time someone else took over as host.” He gives Shayla and James, sitting on our other side, a pointed look since Shayla has flat-out refused to play host at her house when he tried to pass the responsibility to her.

Now that we’re out of the newborn and toddler stage, Bailey and I have taken up the mantle, and I don’t mind one bit.

Miranda tsks. “Oh, stop.”

“I told y’all from the get-go that I enjoy my peace too much,” Shayla says.

Lainey lets out a war cry and throws a curveball, nailing Grayson right in the nose with an overfilled water balloon.

“Oh yeah, real peaceful,” I say sarcastically, chuckling at James, who groans.

Grayson laughs like a maniac instead of getting upset, lobbing two of his own right back at her. At fourteen, Grayson is approaching six feet tall and packs a lot of power in his long limbs. Lainey, stubbornly stuck just under five feet tall, stumbles back and claps a hand to her cheek where one of the balloons hit her. She runs past us into the house with Grayson chasing after her, apologizing for throwing too hard.

James rises, but Shayla grabs his wrist. “Might be time to start letting them work it out themselves,” she says with a tired sigh.

“But—”

“They’ll sort it out, don’t worry.”

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