We enjoy the clear sky, the hot sun, and a few beers, until Jake sets a platter of burgers and hot dogs in the center of the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth and we all sit down at the picnic table to eat. While the pleasant hum of kid chatter fills the lower end of the table, Riley McQuaid sits down with a huff in the chair across from me, her mouth fixed in a pout and unhappy blue eyes throwing sharp glances in Jake’s direction. A palpable silence flows between the teenager and her father figure—it’s heavy and awkward.

So, of course, I have to mention it.

“Everything okay here?” I ask, looking to each of them.

Jake takes a bite of his burger. “Yep.”

Riley’s eyes narrow. “If you consider living under the fascist rule of a dual dictatorship ‘okay,’ then yeah, I guess it is.”

Jake’s mouth pulls up at the corner. “Fascist? That’s cute.”

I lean into Kennedy and whisper, “This sounds juicy.” Then I lift my chin at Riley. “I thought we’d moved passed the angry-nobody-understands-me-teenage phase and were happily settled in the responsible-working-part-time-young-adult stage. What gives?”

Riley and Jake go silent—a Mexican standoff if I ever saw one.

Chelsea, doll that she is, fills in the blanks.

“Riley and Jake had a disagreement yesterday. She had a friend over. A friend who is a boy. In her room. With the door closed.”

And it all becomes so clear.

I turn to Jake. “Did you flip out?”

He shrugs, face deceptively blank. “I don’t flip out. I just got the drill from the garage. Problem solved.”

“Solved how?” I’m already grinning at what I’m sure will be an entertaining answer.

And I’m not disappointed.

“He took off my door!” Riley shouts. “I have no door! I’m sixteen years old with five little brothers and sisters, and no door!”

“Like I said, problem solved,” Jake says evenly.

“I have rights, you know,” Riley counters.

Jake’s smile is patient. “Yes, you do—and not one of them includes having a door. Or a window, for that matter. You might want to keep that in mind, and quit while you’re ahead.”

Riley grinds her teeth, but goes quiet. And I just bet she’s sticking her tongue out at him in her head—or, more likely, flipping him the bird. I know the feeling.

“Come on, Riley,” Stanton says, “don’t be like that. It could be worse.”

“I don’t know how,” the teen grumbles, folding her arms.

“You could be Presley—that’s how.” Stanton’s referring to his fifteen-year-old daughter, who lives most of the year in Mississippi with her mother. She’s been considering colleges in the East, and he’s been positively giddy with excitement.

Riley’s face loosens with curiosity. “I texted her the other day, but she hasn’t gotten back to me. Where is she?”

“In her room, without Internet, TV, or phone, where she’s gonna be for some time.”

At our questioning gazes, he elaborates. “It seems she tried sneakin’ Ethan Fortenbury up the oak tree outside her window to her bedroom.”

I notice eleven-year-old Raymond frowning deeply.

Then Jake reads my mind and tells Stanton, “You seem surprisingly calm about that development.”

The former teenage father waves his hand. “Jenny and I have been anticipating it for years. Had it all planned out. The little shit, Fortenbury, showed up and found Jenn waiting for him by the tree. Her—and her shotgun.”

I whistle.

Stanton winks at Riley. “So you see, darlin’—it could always be worse.”

Riley sighs and shakes her head. “None of you understand us.”

“Au contraire, Fresh Prince, they understand all too well—that’s your problem,” I tell her wisely.

But she just looks confused. “What’s a Fresh Prince?”

I groan. “I feel so frigging old. Thanks, Riley.”

Kennedy pats my hand. And her eyes sparkle as she teases, “You are old. It’s good that you’re finally realizing it. We should hang out with these kids more often.”

It’s the first time she’s ever referred to us as a “we.” A unit. A couple. And as fucking girly as it makes me sound, I like the words on her lips.

“We should, huh?”

Her smile hits me right in the gut. It’s warm and sexy, tender and naughty all in one. “Yeah, we should.”

We gaze at each other for a few moments in that annoying way new couples do—in our own little shining bubble of lust. Then little Ronan McQuaid pops it.

“Daddy!”

He throws himself across Jake’s lap fearlessly, secure in the knowledge that strong hands will always catch him.

“Up, Daddy, up!” he demands.

Without rising from his seat, Jake scoops the toddler under his arms and tosses him high over his head, catching him as he squeals. And Jake’s smile is so wide and big, a weird mixture of happiness and envy surges through my chest. He sets the kid on his feet and Ronan toddles off toward the swing set. Finished eating in record time, the rest of the kids follow suit—leaving us six old people at the table alone.

Stanton asks, “Daddy, huh?”

Jake’s eyes flash to Chelsea, warming to liquid mercury when he catches the adoring look she saves just for him. “Yeah.”