Page 72 of Moms of Mayhem
Then the door opened, and?—
I forgot how to breathe.
Emmy opened the door in an oversized T-shirt that readHurtin’ for a Squirtin’across her chest, making me lose track of every rational thought I’d brought with me. A bright yellow cartoon lemon smirked beneath the text like it was thrilled to be complicit in her crimes. She wore matching lemon-print knee socks and tiny shorts that barely stuck out beneath the shirt on those long, bare legs. I swear to God, it took every shred of restraint I had not to visibly short-circuit.
She had her hair twisted in a loose bun, soft brownstrands escaping near her temples and along her neck—places I now desperately wanted to kiss just to see if she’d shiver. Her cheeks were flushed from laughing, or wine, or maybe the warmth of the house. Whatever it was, it made her glow like sin and sunshine at the same time.
I knew I was staring, and I tried to look away, to act normal, like she wasn’t currently the most dangerous thing I’d ever seen. But it was useless. She was legs and curves and soft skin and sass, and holy hell, I’d never wanted someone more in my entire life.
“Oh.” Her eyes went wide. “You’re not the delivery food.”
“No,” I croaked. “Nope. Not delivery.”
I was staring. Definitely staring. I wanted to stop, but my brain was now buffering in lemony heaven.
“I, uh—Well, I guess I’m kind of delivery. I brought food,” I managed, lifting the bag an inch like some kind of peace offering. “For you.”
Giggles erupted from behind Emmy’s door, and I realized she wasn’t alone.
“And your girls' night,” I added, staring at the siding above her head. “If—if you want. I just thought… I figured you might like company and maybe… tacos? Queso?”
The door pulled open to reveal Shannon, wearing a grin that was entirely too happy for someone wearing a purple T-shirt that saidMay I suggest the roast beef?with an arrow pointed straight down at her crotch. “Quit staring at her lemons, Conway.”
“I’m not—” I started, but Emmy was turning red, and so was I.
A third woman popped up behind them.
“Hi, Beckett!” she called, then dumped a bag ofchildren’s fruit snacks into her tipped-back mouth. “Ignore the shirts. It’s a thing. Mine has semen on it.”
A choked sound escaped me, then I saw hers saidCovered in Seamen, surrounded by tiny sailors.
“I have children,” she added, as if that explained any of this.
“I don’t even know what’s happening,” I muttered.
“That makes two of us.” Emmy bit her lip like she was trying not to laugh. “You, uh… want to come in?”
Did I want to come in?
Into a house full of half-drunk women in explicit T-shirts, one who might be my dream girl and another one carrying 20 years of unspoken resentment?
Every instinct said run. Get back in the truck. Pretend I left the tacos on the porch and vaporized into thin air.
But Emmy’s little smile seemed to say she hoped I’d say yes, and I couldn’t say no to that.
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Yeah.” I stepped forward. “Sure. Why not?”
As soon as I crossed the threshold, Shannon’s eyes narrowed like a hawk spotting prey. She stared at me in silence, a Diet Coke in one hand, the other resting on her hip like she was waiting for me to flinch.
Instead, I held up the queso like a white flag.
For one long second, she said nothing, then finally gave a single nod.
“Good,” she said. “You brought cheese. You can live.”
She turned and walked away, and I exhaled so hard I almost deflated.
Emmy looked up at me with a smirk, taking the other bags of food from my hands. “You passed the Shannon test.”
