Page 10 of Third Time Lucky

Blasphemy.

“Aren’t you going to Bellamy House with JD tomorrow? They have a rec room there, and I’m sure they’d appreciate a special delivery of impulse geek buys more than a boring old check from some random, rich white dude. It would be great PR.”

“I resent being called random. Also, since last year’s Christmas present was DNA-in-a-Can, we know I’m half Persian and Italian with a dash of Denisovan—whatever the hell that is. Thank you, Santa.”

I guess knowing is a good thing. Still, I’d always secretly hoped I was Greek. It sounds sexier.

“You’re right. Random was too far.”

“Grazie. And it’s a good idea.”

“I know.”

“I need a break.”

“Already?”

I climb over the back of my couch, settling in with my orange soda and a muffin. I would hug Mr. Gordon if he were here right now. I already know he’s the kind of person who would endure it with aplomb. You can’t use that word for just anybody.

“It’s been a busy week.”

“JD mentioned that.” She hesitates. “You’re not overdoing it, are you? I wish you’d let me tell him why you needed to ease into things. Dinners and pub trips and interviews as soon as you arrive isn’t easing in.”

“I’m fine, Mom.”

She sighs. “I suppose we’re lucky you didn’t end up on some morning show or your own parade float, with the way the Finn woman has been heralding your arrival. The reporter would have had a field day with that.”

“What’s your problem with the Finns lately? You used to love hearing about them as much as I did.”

“Jealousy.” That’s another thing we have in common. Neither one of us is afraid of that honesty train.

“And yes, I’ve heard all the stories a dozen times from you and your brothers, even Rick and Matilda. All the romance. All the family bonding. The Waynes and the Finns. Two households, both alike in dignity.”

“You went full Shakespeare.” I offer up a sideways golf clap, accidentally raining crumbs on my sweatshirt. “Thankfully these households seem to get along.”

“They must, since they keep marrying each other. If they’d learn a few dance numbers we could sell their story to Bollywood, and my mother would make me watch it after family dinners and cry because I’ll never be able to join in.”

I’ve seen the scene she’s describing on more than one occasion. I’d thought it was a family joke at first, but no. “I have a second bedroom with your name on it. I’ll literally put your name on it as soon as I get that label maker, and I’ll give you sole control of the remote. You did say you wanted to join me.”

“I did,” she soothes. “I do. But I think I’ll wait to make sure what’s going on over there isn’t contagious. If you’re not joining your brothers on the marital bliss bandwagon after a month, I’ll plan a trip.”

“Then I’ll be seeing you soon, because that’s never happening.”

I was as dumbfounded as everyone else with that rapid turn of events. JD, the overly independent and adorably high maintenance bookish loner. Royal, the irreverent, who was internationally known for playing the field and flying away as fast as his pilot’s license allowed. We’d thought those two were the least likely to settle into a life of domestic bliss. But we’d all been wrong.

They’d each fallen hard and fast before getting married and putting down roots across the country from our parents and most of our siblings. Even stranger, they both claim to have met their soulmates at an Irish pub run by—and you can probably see this coming—the infamous Finn family.

“How can you be so sure?”

The question makes me laugh. “I can’t always avoid reality, Tani. And the reality is that I apparently take things too seriously, and yet not seriously enough. That I have no life even though I’m always busy. That I’m great with kids but bad at love.”

She frowns. “Don’t talk in absolutes. Reality can change. I heard you promise JD he could set you up if he found you a good match.”

“I’m still on the fence about that.”

“Well get off it before you get splinters somewhere painful.” She gives me the I mean business eyeball. “Your ex isn’t riding the fence. He’s marrying some famous hussy with unrealistic measurements. It’s all over the news.”

“I wouldn’t call her famous,” I mumble, wincing at how petty I sound.

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