She glances at me quickly, smiling self-consciously. “Oh . . . thank you.” She tightens the cap on the bottle, places it on the counter, and turns to face me. “This is weird, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not.”

“It’s totally weird, Jake. You know what I look like naked—”

Do I ever. The image is seared into my brain. My favorite memory.

“—and now you’re here watching the kids while I go out on a date with another man. That’s, like, the definition of weirdness.”

I chuckle. “It doesn’t have to be. We’re adults. We’re friends. This is what . . . friends do.”

She looks up into my eyes, her cheeks flushed, her expression so much more than friendly.

The dog goes nuts barking at a knock from the front door. With another quick smile, Chelsea goes to answer it. I make my way back out to the den just as Chelsea leads Tom Caldwell in, introducing him to the kids, his white teeth gleaming like shiny pearls as he smiles at each one of them.

Then, under his breath, I hear him whisper to Chelsea, “You look ravishing.”

Who says that? Who the hell uses the word ravishing?

Douchebags—that’s who.

“I just have to grab my bag and then we’ll go.” She blows a kiss at the kids. “Be good, guys. I’ll be home in a little while.” Then she leaves the room.

And I make my move. “Caldwell.”

“Becker.” He grins, holding out his hand. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

I grip his hand hard when I shake it. “You shouldn’t be. I’m here a lot. I’m watching the kids for Chelsea.”

“That’s nice of you.”

Yep—that’s me. Fucking nice.

I guide him toward the front door, needing a moment alone. In the foyer, my voice drops low and menacing. “I just want to make a few things clear. If you treat Chelsea with anything less than perfect respect . . . if you ever think about doing something that will in any way hurt these kids . . . when I’m finished with you, there won’t be enough left to bury.”

My stare is unwavering.

He leans back. “Are you threatening me, Jake?”

“I thought that was pretty fucking obvious.”

Then he chuckles, smacking my back like we’re old friends. “Message received. You have nothing to worry about with me.”

Chelsea comes down the stairs and Caldwell opens the front door for her. He salutes me as he walks out. “Have fun babysitting, Becker.”

I stand there for a few moments after they leave, glaring at the closed door. Rory comes up next to me, looking in the same direction.

“He seems like a douchebag.”

“You’re an excellent judge of character, you know that, kid?”

Rory nods. And I tap his shoulder. “Come on, let’s go play Halo. I feel like annihilating something.”

• • •

It’s about eleven when Chelsea comes home. Blessedly alone. She walks through the front door and into the den—where we’re waiting for her.

All of us.

She kicks off her shoes. “Wow, hey—you guys are still up.”

I sit in the middle of the couch, Regan on my lap, Rory and Raymond on either side, Riley leaning against the back.

“The kids wanted to talk to you about something,” I explain.

Her gaze flickers to each of them. “What’s up?

“We don’t like him,” Rory says.

It takes a moment for Chelsea to understand. “Him?” Her thumb points over her shoulder. “Tom?”

“He’s a douche,” Rory confirms.

“He doesn’t seem very smart,” Raymond adds.

“He’s booooring,” Rosaleen chimes in.

“He’s cute,” Riley says. “But you could do better.”

And Regan ties it all together. “No!”

God, she’s eloquent.

Chelsea laughs. “All right. Well, thank you for sharing your thoughts. Your feelings are duly noted. Now”—she sweeps her hand to the stairs—“go to bed.”

When the predictable groans and complaints begin, I back her up. “Go on, guys, just make it easy on yourselves. Rory, help Regan brush her teeth.”

“I’ll be up to tuck you in in a minute,” she tells them as they file past her like baby ducks in a row. Then her eyes fall on me, locked and loaded. “Can I speak with you outside? Now.”

And her tone means business. Guess her panties are twisted, but that’s fine with me—’cause my panties are pretty goddamn twisted at the moment too.

Okay, that didn’t come out right . . . but you know what I fucking mean. If she wants a fight, I’m more than happy to give her one. Or more than one.

Multiple.

Long, sweaty, bed-breaking . . . shit! What the hell is wrong with me?

Once the kids are upstairs, I follow her out the back door, my stiff strides matching her stomping ones, onto the dark patio. The French door slams with a bang and she doesn’t waste any time whirling around to face me.

“This isn’t fair! You can’t do this!”

“What exactly do you think I’m doing, Chelsea?”

“Turning the kids against any man I go out with. My love life is not up for a vote!”

The only words I process from that statement are love life. What the fuck is up with that?

“You have a love life?” I ask, horrified. The popcorn I ate during the movie with the kids turns to lead in my stomach.