Page 95 of Married to Number 22
Bold and brash become soft and easy.
“You two ladies need anything?” The question doesn’t boom. It floats through the air, landing delicately on our ears…and I realize it’s kind of how he handles his wife, Kailey—with the utmost care.
Bold and brash and…a big ol’ teddy bear.
My heart squeezes.
“No,” I tell him, slanting a look at Bri, who shakes her head. “I think we’re good.”
“Cake? Champagne?” He waggles his brows. “Another glorious rendition of a Backstreet Boys classic from my glorious vocal cords?”
Bri giggles.
It’s quiet, so quiet that I barely hear it.
But, again, it’sthere.
“Don’t encourage him,” Kailey says as she comes over, loops her arm through Smitty’s, and smiles up at him. She’s a quiet woman, the polar opposite of Smitty. They shouldn’t work but they do.
Probably because he’s the aforementioned big ol’ teddy bear.
“Encourage?” he asks, affecting outrage. “I am the karaokemaster. I need no encouragement.”
She lifts on tiptoe, presses a kiss to his bearded cheek. “That we all know.”
“Rude.” He taps the tip of her nose then sweeps a hand out. “Maybe I’ll gift you all my vocal talents again.”
“You can”—her eyes sparkle with mischief I wouldn’t expect from someone so quiet—“but that might make me bust out the wombatsong.”
The big man rears back, face going pale. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“You know me. You love me.” A beat, those mischief-laden eyes holding his. “So yeah, what do you think?”
“No more Backstreet Boys.”
Another kiss on his cheek, this one a loud smack. “Exactly.”
Bri giggles. And, God, I love that sound.
“What’s scary about wombats?” she whispers to me.
But, Smitty, with all of his superpowers, hears. “What’sscaryabout wombats?” he asks, shuddering. “First of all, it’s the beady little eyes. They’re dark like death and pierce straight into your soul, reminding you of the fragility of the human condition?—”
Kailey groans, head dropping back, gaze on the sky. “Here we go.”
“And there are the claws?—”
“Luns.”
I turn away from Smitty as he starts talking about cube-shaped poo and see that Aiden is behind me with two men I don’t recognize, though both look relatively familiar. As though I’ve seen them somewhere before.
More hockey people, maybe.
“Hey, tiny tornado,” he murmurs, bending so the words are spoken directly into my ear. “I invited someone.”
“And I likely overstepped because I invited someone else,” the older of the two men says, his gentle blue eyes coming to mine. “I hope you don’t mind a couple of party crashers.”
“Of course not,” I say, though I think my uncertainty shines out through my words because when he extends his hand, his voice is careful. “I’m Jean-Michel.”
