Little Trent’s eyes went as big as saucers. “So did you.”
Betty rolled her eyes. “I have lots of fivers, Trent. How many do you have?”
“You guys made it!” They all looked up at Billie and Logan, and, after a hug from Beau and a big congrats, the lot of them moved toward the house.
The guys slapped Shane on the back and made a few off-color jokes, then almost immediately headed for the back deck, where the important work of barbecuing was about to commence.
Herschel grabbed Bobbi up in fierce hug. “Happy you’re back with us, sweets.”
“Me too.” Bobbi kissed his cheek and stood back. Her gramps was dressed as usual with a faded John Deere ball cap, a gray T-shirt that had at one time been white, and a pair of old jeans that if not for the thick leather belt at his waist, would surely be hanging down around his ankles.
Just the sight of him filled her heart up.
“You’
re glowing, my girl.” Herschel winked. “It’s going to be a busy winter with all the new babies. To think, all three of my twins are expecting.”
“What?!” Bobbi glanced over to Betty, who sat on a stool at the counter, with Ivy on her lap.
Her sister shrugged. “Yeah. That was the other reason I came home.” She giggled. “Folks are going to think we planned this. I can see the headline on Hollywood Tattler now.” She paused dramatically. “‘Betty Jo Simon convinces her triplet sisters to get pregnant, because she’s crazy like that.’” She shrugged. “Honestly, it was a hot night in the Caribbean and a bottle of tequila.”
“Pretty sure Beau had something to do with it too,” Bobbi replied with a chuckle.
Billie started to giggle, then held up her hand. “Hold on.” She dashed from the kitchen, and Bobbi looked after her in concern.
“Don’t worry about her. She’s been puking off and on since I got here. You seem good, though.” Betty grinned.
Bobbi wandered over to her sister and grabbed a tomato from the salad. “I am.”
“I was so happy when I found out you and Shane worked out your problems. No way could this earth keep spinning if the two of you separated for good.” She frowned. “Didn’t you actually send him papers?”
“I did.” Bobbi grimaced.
“Who does that?” Betty asked with a laugh.
“Your crazy sister, that’s who.” Shane appeared from nowhere and pressed a kiss to the side of her neck.
“None of that, Gallagher. At least not until after dinner.” Betty shook her head.
“Says who?” he shot back.
“Me,” Betty replied. “I haven’t been alone with Beau in four days because he was in New York on business. And I don’t know about your wife, but the pregnancy hormones, they do something to a girl.”
“Yep,” he answered roughly, his hands moving down Bobbi’s shoulders to cup her butt.
“Jesus Christ, Shane.”
“Mom! That’s worst than the F word.” Trent stood in the doorway, a big pair of barbecue tongs in one hand, his cousin Abel just behind him, looking equally horrified.
Betty Jo sighed and slid off the chair. She handed over Ivy and raised an elegant eyebrow at Shane. “Welcome to my world. Last week, we had Beau’s parents for dinner, and Trent said the f-word at least five times.” She looked at her son and smiled. “Cost him twenty-five bucks.”
“I thought you decided to tone down the potty-mouth thing,” Bobbi said, jiggling Ivy on her hip. Her niece really was the sweetest little thing.
“Oh, I did,” Betty replied and leaned close to whisper, “I say feck instead of…you know. But I say it a lot. As much, if not more than I used to say the other f-word, and a few months ago, my son caught on to what it stood for. So now when he says feck, he has to put his money into the swear jar.” Her eyebrows rose dramatically. “He’s my son, so the jar is damn full.”
“Mom.”
“You see how small my vocabulary world has become?” She turned to her son. “Okay, Trent. Let’s both try to be good, okay?”