In the end, Logan makes it home on time. As soon as he walks through the door, he pulls me into his arms, buries his face against my neck, and breathes me in, deeply, until I feel him relax. Since I’m pretty much doing the same, only with less force, I’m not complaining.

Then we take a shower together, because we’re all about helping the environment. California might be out of its six-year-long drought period, but it never hurts to be frugal in conserving water.

So we end up being late to Wallace’s anyway, because we just so enjoy our water-conserving showers together.

We’re both grinning, and probably glowing in our joined post-coital bliss, when he tightens the strap of my helmet under my chin, kisses my nose, and straddles his motorcycle.

“Hop on, hot stuff,” he says with a wink. “Because I feel the need...”

I huff. Of course, he always rolled his eyes when I made Top Gun references in the past, but now that he’s changed careers and is no longer hurtling through the air at multiple-Mach speeds, he’s all for it. At least he’s being more responsible than Tom Cruise had been in the movie and wears a crash helmet instead of aviator sunglasses. And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t ride around the base shaking his fist at fighter planes.

“The need for speed,” he finishes.

I merely shake my head and climb on behind him. He might claim feeling the need for speed, but, being the responsible citizen he’s been for more than a decade now, he always keeps it under the limit. Or maybe he only does when I’m with him, because, according to him, I’m his precious (yet another movie reference that makes me gag, especially when he says it in his uncannily accurate Golum voice).

“Hold on tight,” he warns when I apparently don’t clutch at him tight enough for his liking. “We wouldn’t want to lose you along the way, now, would we?”

I bump my fist against the back of his helmet, feel his abs contract as he chuckles, and then we’re off, in a near-silent whir of his electric bike.

As I said, we’re all about helping the environment.



In front of Wallace’s house, having placed our helmets on the seat, he pulls me into his arms, the intent lighting up his eyes. I sigh softly and go readily. We might be late, but he’s recently returned from deployment, I’m sure Wallace and Shae will understand.

Our mouths are only a breath apart, when my phone rings.

He touches his forehead to mine with a slightly frustrated sigh, frowning when I show him the caller ID.

“Your dad can be a real cockblocker sometimes,” he mutters, chuckling as I slap his shoulder. “Take it, I’ll be inside, getting reacquainted with my godson.”

I watch him skip up the few stairs to the door that opens before he has a chance to ring the bell. He and Wallace do the thumb-clasping handshake, finishing it off with a male half-hug with plenty of back-slapping. Wallace nods toward me, but Logan simply shakes his head and pushes him back inside the house as I answer the phone.

“Yeah?”

He delves right in; I texted him earlier, before Logan came home, to keep me up to speed. “They’re saying four dead.”

Jesus, four?!

“I can’t believe there’s not more. That place is mobbed this time of year. The motel owner died. Plus a Mexican national going to school at Cal Tech, a law school student, and the fiancée of Alex Maloof.” There’s a pause as he, no doubt, skims through the article. “Younger brother of Congressman Daniel Maloof.”

There’s immediate relief that I don’t know any of the four victims, followed by a stab of guilt for the morbid thought. “What about the bomb? Where was it planted, was it on timer? Do they speculate terrorism, given the connection to the Congressman, was it racially motivated because of the Mexican kid...” I feel more than hear Wallace running out of patience and coming to fetch me. “You know what, Dad? I gotta go.” I turn to my best friend and smile. “The host is tapping his watch at me. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Love you.”

I smile. Of course, he does. “Love you, too. Good night.”

Wallace merely spreads his arms. “Come here, you.”

I pretend not to understand the stupid grin spreading on his face or the offered embrace. Of course, Logan tattled the moment he stepped into the house. He probably told the entire base the good news, I half expected a marching band greeting me when I returned from Hu’s. “What’s up?” I ask, doing the dumb-as-a-post blonde bimbo impression.

He grabs me and pulls me into one of his signature bear hugs. “You two crazy kids are making it official, I can finally stash my shotgun.”

I laugh, enjoying the comfort, the feeling of home, of the hug. “That’s my Dad’s line.” I pull out of his embrace and frown. “Actually, that was exactly my Dad’s line when I told him. Did you two compare notes or something?”

Wallace grins and tugs me toward the house. “Nah, we did place a bet, though.”

I gasp in mock outrage. “You two bet on my love life?”

“Just the engagement part. And not just us. We all pitched in. Shae, Mac, Dick, Weev, and that Logan’s Navy buddy, Ricks.”

The ones who were confident that even if we found out, we wouldn’t kill them. Much. “So, who won?”

“Mac,” Wallace growls.

Of course she did.

“She was dead on.” Wallace rolls his eyes, opens the door and, a true gentleman to the core, motions for me to precede him. “She actually made a program to calculate it to the hour, can you imagine?”

Actually, I can.

“And then she called, from her vacation, might I add, to gloat.”

“Mac doesn’t—”

The sight in Wallace’s living room stops me short. Logan is playing with little Noah Fennel. Logan is sitting on Wallace’s couch with an adorable baby in his arms, emitting adorable baby-appropriate noises. All possible words and thoughts flee, as my hormones stand to attention, my ovaries explode (metaphorically, of course), and my inner petulant spoiled child exclaims I want one!

“This is a respectable house, V,” Wallace murmurs beside me. “You might want to keep it in your pants until you two get home.”

I sense him walk into the living room, but I cannot seem to move, my eyes glued to Logan with a baby in his arms. What would he look like with our baby in his arms? Hot. Sexy. Adorable. Loving. A keeper.

“Aw, hell, no,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head to dislodge the mental image. We just became engaged. It took him five years to merely propose, I might want to wait a bit before springing the whole baby-making thing on him. He’d probably go into full-on panic mode at the mention, frightened to the bone of being a bad father with the example he was given. But I know he’d make a wonderful dad, despite and because of the example he’d been given. He’d be the exact opposite of Aaron Echolls in every single way. He’d love and cherish his children (and there I go, already thinking in plural), guide them in life, protect them, keep them safe.

You will make a wonderful father, baby.

When I finally get my legs to move, Noah is the first one to see me, flashing me his endearing toothless grin. Then Logan turns toward me, a corner of his mouth kicked up in his signature lopsided smile and my heart goes pitter-pat, while my ovaries do their kaboom thing again. I must be ovulating. I’m always hornier when I’m ovulating.

Who am I kidding? I get turned on with him simply breathing.

“Hey, sweetie.” He places a soft kiss on Noah’s temple and I shiver. “You ever seen one of these before? It’s called...” Another soft kiss. “What do you call it?”

Standing behind the couch, Wallace shakes his head. I don’t know if it’s because of Logan’s antics or the sexual heat coming off me in waves, and I don’t really care. “I call him Noah,” he explains.

Logan bounces the kid in question. “No.”

Wallace’s eyebrow climbs. “No?”

Logan shakes his head, staring off into the distance as if deep in thought.

What a drama queen.

“No, you call it something else.”

Wallace glances at me and rolls his eyes. “A baby?”

As if a light-bulb was turned on, Logan immediately perks up. “That’s it.” He looks at me and there’s no mistaking the glint in his eyes. Maybe the full-on panic mode would be avoided if mutual babies would be brought up. “It’s a baby, Veronica.”

Lord, have mercy. I make a noncommittal sound, pretending to glance at my phone. Anything, to prevent me from jumping his bones on Wallace’s couch. That would guarantee we’d never again be invited to dinner and I happen to like Shae’s cooking.

“It’s what everyone’s goin’ on about.” He keeps bouncing Noah slightly on his knee.

“Yeah, yeah.” I put the phone on vibrate, stash it into my bag, and, hormones firmly under control—I hope—drop onto the couch beside him, reaching my hands toward Noah, who’s already mirroring my actions, babbling happily. “Give me my nephew, before you give him motion sickness.”

Logan relinquishes Noah with a grin and I settle the tyke in my lap. “Hey, there,” I croon. “Don’t you look handsome tonight, little Noah.”

“Of course, he does,” Wallace concurs. “He’s wearing an outfit Auntie Veronica bought him.”

I pretend to inspect the garment, then grin at Wallace. “But of course. I thought it looked familiar. I have splendid taste in baby clothes, don’t I?”

“And in fiances,” Logan interjects, leaning close and kissing my cheek.

“That’s right.” I bat my lashes at him. “You ain’t that shabby, either.”

Wallace chuckles, says he’s going to fetch his wife, and leaves Noah and me giggling at the faces Logan makes and communicate in baby-langs. Which, if I may be so bold, I’m quite well-versed in.



After Shae’s delicious dinner—the woman somehow finds the time in her busy schedule of being a mom, wife and a successful attorney to cook amazing meals for family and friends on a regular basis—Logan and Wallace are laughing their asses off in the living room playing Cards Against Humanity, as I help with the clean-up, when little Noah Fennel, after having been put to sleep over two hours ago, comes crawling into the kitchen, babbling excitedly along the way.

“What are you doing here?” Shae asks as she scoops him up in her arms. “You, young man, should be asleep by now. Wallace?!”

A few seconds later, the man in question, followed closely by Logan, pops into the kitchen. Seeing his son in his mother’s arms, Wallace frowns. “He got out again?” At Logan’s surprised look, he explains, “I don’t know what happened, but all of a sudden, our son’s become an escape artist.”

Shae nods, soothingly rubbing her thumb between Noah’s brows. “We put him to bed and he somehow gets out of it. No matter what we do, he just get’s out.”

“We even changed the crib, thinking it was defective,” Wallace continues, “but he still gets out. He’s too small to climb out on his own, I don’t know how he does it.”

Logan looks at me, just looks at me, and I know he knows. Not suspects, knows. “Hmmm.” He scratches at the back of his neck, a small smile playing on his lips, and I want to punch him. “It sure is a conundrum, this. Or maybe he’s just a genius thanks to his pedigree. Or a modern-day Houdini in the making. What do you think, Sugarpuss?”

I glare at him and he winks back, his lips slightly pursed as if to send me a kiss.

Guess what, buddy, the only thing you can kiss from now on is my ass.

And I know what I’ll be doing on my next impromptu babysitting session in the Fennel house. Using my knowledge in baby-langs to convey to young Mr Noah Fennel that the trick I taught him for how to get out of his crib was meant to be used in emergencies only.