Must Be Wright (The Wrights 3)

Either Wyatt hadn’t met her or he’d forgotten he’d met her, because he had no idea who she was. Had no idea who any of the women were. But he waved in return. “Hey, y’all.”

Every kid was dressed up as one princess or another, and they either ran between what looked like various crafting and game tables or spilled in or out of a huge castle bounce house.

A blue-and-yellow balloon arch stretched over the yard from fence to fence, and a buffet table of food filled one side of the patio. He found his mom and dad watching the festivities from a couple of lounge chairs beneath an awning.

“Hey there, son.” His dad waved him over.

Wyatt had visited them every day since he got home, but he still gave his mom a kiss before sitting beside her. “Hey, Mama. Are you two all packed?”

He’d given them a cruise for their thirtieth wedding anniversary—ten days touring Alaska, followed by ten days touring the Hawaiian Islands. They flew to Los Angeles tomorrow to meet the ship.

“I’ve been packed for two weeks,” she said, cutting a grin at his dad. “Your father, on the other hand…”

Wyatt barely had a chance to relax into the chair before Belle ran over and grabbed his hand. “Uncle Wyatt, it’s a princess party.”

“I can see that. Your mom put together quite a carnival out here.”

“What princess are you going to be?”

“Yes, son,” his mom said, grinning. “What princess are you going to be?”

“Oh, I don’t think I’m princess material—”

“I’m Belle, of course, from Beauty and the Beast. Kaylee is Cinderella.” She pointed out the girls as she spoke. “Ashley is Snow White. Scarlett is Elsa.”

She kept talking, but Wyatt’s brain went numb somewhere after Elsa.

“Come over to the makeup table,” Belle said, dragging him toward the throng. “I’ll make you beautiful.”

Wyatt cut a help-me look at his parents. “Guys? Little help here.”

His father laughed, and his mother just grinned, legs crossed, one foot swinging. “It’s Belle’s day.”

Wyatt exhaled heavily, allowing Belle to drag him toward a table with makeup covering the top. And every adult female had their cell phone out.

The best way to make this day all about Belle was to focus all his attention on Belle. One thing he’d sworn to himself the day Brody died was that no one else in his family would ever disappear in his shadow.

Wyatt sat on a chair with his knees up to his chin and let Belle do whatever she wanted with his face. As soon as his publicist checked social media, his phone would blow up.

Four eternal hours later, Wyatt sat sideways in one of the lounge chairs his parents had vacated when they’d left to finish packing for their trip. He was still wearing the tiara Belle had christened him with right after she’d applied his makeup.

Thank God that was over. He slung one leg over the arm of the chair and twisted the top off his first beer today. Finally.

The last little girl and her mother had left ten minutes ago, and Belle had instantly passed out on the living room sofa.

The yard looked like a Disney bomb had exploded, spitting balloons and streamers and wrapping paper all over the damn place. Wyatt wanted a shower in the worst way. The lipstick Belle used to paint his lips and cheeks had to be made out of some high-tech spreadable plastic, because nothing he’d done so far had gotten rid of it, and the glitter from the fuchsia eyeshadow Belle caked on his lids kept getting in his goddamned eye.

It was nearing suppertime, and the sun hung low. He needed to head to Gypsy’s soon, and sliding back into a familiar environment while chatting with Gypsy for the rest of the night sounded like heaven.

He finished half the beer and dragged his phone from his pocket to check for a call or message from Francie, but there was still nothing. A thread of unease trickled across his neck. He dialed her number and listened to it ring, then go to voicemail, just like the last five times he’d tried her.

She’d never returned from her ice cream run. Wyatt assumed she’d taken a detour to find a quiet spot to think. Cry. Grieve. This was a hard day for all of them. He’d assumed she’d be back in time to say goodbye to everyone, and now he was getting worried. He was also exhausted, more mentally than physically. Twenty five-year-old girls running around screaming was enough to wear anyone out. Add in serving cake, jumping in the blow-up house trying not to crush any five-year-old and playing “princess” while juggling twenty flirty moms…

He was one messed-up motherfucker.

He finished his beer and pushed from the chair. Hands on hips, he looked around the yard, then inside the house. And shook his head. “No. No, no, no.”

He wasn’t cleaning up this mess, and he wasn’t going to leave it for Francie either.