Sidebarred (The Legal Briefs 3.5)

The exception being when the kid beside me plucked my man-card from my death grip years ago—and pathetically begged for a lullaby while suffering a stomach virus.

And I caved. Spectacularly. With a One Direction ballad.

Humiliating? Sure. But since the damage has already been done . . .

“Da na nanana na na na nanana. Da na nanana na na na nanana. Da na nanana . . . nananana.”

It’s the Rocky theme song in case you can’t tell. If you ever need an inspiration boost when working out? The Rocky sound track kicks ass.

“Da na naaaa, da na naaaaa!”

She laughs.

But damn if she doesn’t pick up the pace.

“Da na naaaaaa, da na naaaaa! Gonna fly now . . .”

Rosaleen crosses the threshold of the house, arms raised like a mini–Rocky Balboa at the top of the Philadelphia steps.

And seeing the pride on her face?

Humiliation’s got nothing on that.

Once inside, Rosaleen immediately crumples to the living-room floor in a comatose heap. And stays there.

I grab two bottles of water from the kitchen, drink one myself, and put the other in her hand. “You want to come downstairs and lift weights with me?”

“Numph.”

I pat the back of her head.

“Next week, then.”

After lifting weights in the basement and a quick shower I head to the kitchen, where I’m greeted by chaos. Noisy, vibrating, bickering, laughing chaos.

Because the gang’s all up, eating breakfast at the kitchen table.

“Can I have some more bacon?” Rory asks with his mouth full of scrambled eggs, his brown wavy hair falling over his forehead as he hunkers over his plate.

When I first met Rory McQuaid he was a pissed-off, stubborn little punk who was picking pockets and stealing cars to deal with the anger and devastation over his parents’ sudden death. He’s better now. Happier. Still a smart-ass, still gets a kick out of torturing his siblings, but he’s steering clear of activities that could land him in juvenile detention.

“God, that’s like your third serving,” eighteen-year-old Riley complains. “Just eat the whole pound, why don’t you?”

Rory and his twin brother, Raymond, are thirteen-year-old, growing boys—emphasis on growing. Either one waking up a quarter inch taller—and half a shoe size bigger—than they were the night before is fairly common. And like bats, they pretty much eat their weight in food.

Rory opens his mouth wide, flashing his sister the half-chewed horror on his tongue.

“You’re so gross!”

“I’d rather be gross than a nag!”

Riley flings a piece of toast like a ninja star.

Before Rory can retaliate, Chelsea gives them The Look, then hands Rory three more pieces of bacon. I pour a cup of black coffee at the counter, turn around, and almost trip over tiny Regan, standing next to me with a hairbrush and elastic tie in her hand.

“Can you do my braid, Daddy?”

Regan and Ronan are the only two who call me and Chelsea “Mom” and “Dad”—too young to have any real memories of their parents, Robert and Rachel. To some, it might seem weird that the kids call us different names, but for us, it works.

I run the brush through her hair—it’s getting really long—and weave the light-brown strands into a French braid in record time. She smiles, her top two teeth adorably missing, then sits at the table to finish her eggs.

On my right, I catch Chelsea giving me a different look than the one she tossed the kids’ way. It’s of the I-want-to-drop-to-my-knees-and-blow-you-so-bad variety.

“What?”

She shakes her head and steps closer. Her perfect breasts jiggle just a little beneath the lettering of her black San Diego Chargers jersey—and I lick my lips. I should’ve given her tits more attention this morning. I mentally promise to make it up to them tomorrow.

Chelsea’s voice is low, so the kids can’t hear. “There will never be anything sexier than watching you—with your muscles and tattoos—braiding a six-year-old’s hair.”

I shrug. “My braids are awesome.”

“They are.” She laughs. “And I love you.”

“I love you, too.” I lean down and kiss her.

Until Rory complains. “That’s enough face sucking. You’re married for God’s sakes—act like it.”

Chelsea giggles against my lips. But then whispers, “We should talk later.”

Huh. She wants to talk. Great. Cool.

Said no guy ever.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I think so. Just . . . later.” She gives my forearm a squeeze—right over the tattoo with her and all the kids’ names on it—and walks to the table to replenish the eggs.

I sit down at the head of the table, snag a piece of whole-wheat toast, and ask, “What are the plans for today, team?”

Riley pipes up first. “I’m going to Peter’s.”

Peter Wentworth is Riley’s boyfriend of the last six months. He seems like a decent kid—doesn’t piss his pants in my presence, like some of her past suitors. So I give him points for bravery. But . . . he’s just such a fucking dork.

A cosplaying, World of Warcraft–obsessed, could-be-an-understudy-for–The Big Bang Theory dork. Even for puppy love, I just don’t think Peter’s good enough for her.

Raymond raises his hand. “I have to go to the library to meet my group to finish a summer project for astronomy.”

Rosaleen goes next. “I have piano.”

Then Rory. “I have baseball practice.”

And Regan. “I have ballet and tap today.”

Then, finally, Ronan, his sandy-blond hair sticking up because no one’s gotten around to brushing it for him. “I got nuffin’.”

I point my finger. “Then you’re with me today, kiddo.”

Chelsea sits down at the other end of the table.

“You’re going to see the Judge?”

I nod. “I’ll take Ronan with me, drop Rory at practice on the way, and pick him up on the way back.”

“Rosaleen can come with me to Regan’s dance class,” Chelsea says. “We’ll make it back home in time for her piano lesson.” She turns to Riley. “And you can drop Raymond off at the library when you go to Peter’s.”