Long Way Down (Calloway Sisters 4)

“He’s a little kid,” Lo reminds him.

“It sets a precedent. This is the first flour-bomber we’ve caught. If I let him go, there’ll probably be another one.” We need to charge someone with assault.

I’m uneasy about slapping that on a preteen, but it’s not my fucking call. I nod to Connor, flour dusted on his forehead and some on his cheek. None in his eyes or mouth. “You got a little something on your face, Cobalt.”

“Don’t be so excited around me next time and your aim will improve,” Connor says. Not even close to rattled, just a little peeved by his messy hair. He can’t fix it without a shower. “I don’t blame you if that’s asking too much. I excite most people.”

“My dick has never been fucking limper than this moment,” I tell him.

He laughs.

I laugh too, but not for long.

Lo sits on the edge of the table with daggered eyes. He says to us, “We’re not charging that kid.”

My little brother has a soft spot for reckless, dangerous fucking kids, and it’s hard to say no to him when he has these pleading but merciless eyes.

“It’s Connor’s call,” I say, but I sincerely worry about someone flour-bombing Daisy again. Do we punish this kid for everyone else’s wrongdoing? Make an example out of him? Just to benefit us.

I think five years ago, Connor would have without question, but over time, Lo has changed him. And he says, “We’ll let him go.”

His phone buzzes, and he checks the text. His entire demeanor alters, more serious, more alert than the few moments before. Whatever this is—it has to hold greater importance and priority to Connor than these flour-bombers.

I think I know what’s happening.

“What’s wrong?” Lo asks, standing up from the table.

We already begin to head out, and I use my crutches to keep pressure off my right leg.

Just as Connor pushes through the door, he says, “Rose is going into labor.”

On my birthday. She’s giving birth to twins.

DAISY MEADOWS

Charlie Keating Cobalt and Beckett Joyce Cobalt were born September 19th, 2017 at 5 pounds 6 ounces and 5 pounds 4 ounces respectively.

Two boys.

Two bundles of cute, adorable joy. I’ve never seen Rose so happy to be in a hospital with doctors who confirmed her babies’ good health, right on the spot.

“Are we going to take bets on how many babies they have?” I ask while I sit on the kitchen counter. We’re heading over to Rose and Connor’s house after our cake is finished. Their babies are already twelve days old.

How fast they grow.

I touch my baby bump, molded by my pale green mermaid tee that says meet me under the sea. I keep thinking my stomach will shrink back to normal. Any minute now. Poof. He or she will be gone.

Don’t go just yet. Just stay a little longer.

One more day with me.

“Probably five. What’s your fucking guess?” He cracks the oven, checking our vanilla cake. The timer says three more minutes, but he’s definitely the better cook between us.

The majority of my theories are cynical, but a handful stands strong in the positive circle of things. “I’d like to think if you want something badly enough, it’ll happen,” I tell him. “So I’m guessing eight kids.” It’s what Rose and Connor want in the end, even if Rose claims she’d be happy with any number.

Ryke nods and tries to squat to see the cake, gripping his cane for partial support.

I swallow, holding my breath a bit.

It’s a simple action. Bending.

But not when his right leg and thigh have a plate, rod, and screws, his scar zipping up his leg. The cast sawed off and trashed.

It’s not like he’ll gain full mobility with the snap of his fingers. He’s only had twelve days of physical therapy along with Lo aggravating him every night to finish his workouts. Thankfully. I don’t think he’d do them without that extra push.

“Fuck,” Ryke mutters under his breath, struggling to bend his right knee. He winces some.

The thing with Ryke, he prefers to do a lot on his own. I can’t just butt in or else he’ll be more frustrated, so I ask, “What can I do?”

His jaw muscles tense. “Just toss me the fucking oven mitt.”

Without hopping off the counter, I chuck the oven mitt in his direction. He catches it with his free hand and then only bends his left knee. Slowly, he retrieves the cake from the oven and sets it on the stove to cool, leaving the mitt too.

He leans the cane against the counter and then walks slowly towards me, limping really. I never take my eyes off his, and he breathes through his nose, pain cramping his expression.

He makes it though, his hands sliding on either side of me. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, feeling how he distributes his weight towards his left side.

“I had a dream last night,” I tell him, distracting him from the pain and his leg. I’ve tried complimenting him on his effort, and it tanks his mood more than bolsters it. He’s a finicky one, that Ryke Meadows.

But he’s my finicky husband and broody wolf.

And he’s alive. I’m certain. He’s still living somewhere in there. The spark hits his eyes every now and then, but here’s the secret.

He never gives up on me, even when I disappear at night. Even when I wane like the setting sun. His love is unyielding and exists to cloak me through heartache, through misery, through laughter and pain. I love him in every moment.

In every smile. In every frown.

And I will love him after every long way down.

He can mourn. He can grieve. He can be upset for the rest of his life. And still. I will never give up on Ryke Meadows.

Like he never once gave up on me.

“An actual fucking dream?” he wonders, his brows pulling into a scowl.

“I’m not joking, I promise.” I sleep so lightly that I rarely dream, but I dreamt last night, of all nights. We made love, so maybe that helped.

He scoots closer, still towering above me, and his gaze falls to my baby bump. “What about?”

I swing my legs, and he breaks them apart so they fit on either side of his waist. “I was swimming at the lake house, and I just kept swimming. I’m not really sure where I was going.” I smile at the image. “I floated on my back and stared at the sky.” I look up at him. “I almost forgot how beautiful dreams are.”

His lips rise, his eyes smiling more than he knows. That spark, fighting. “That’s all you remember?”

I think hard but nothing else comes. So I add, “And then there was a sea turtle that asked me if I wanted a ride and I said, ‘I’m deeply afraid of breaking your shell, but I’ll swim next you, sea turtle man.’” I wag my brows in jest.

He messes my hair until the blonde strands stick up every which way.

I bite his shoulder, hugging him. Then he lifts me off the counter and sets my feet on the ground. I don’t freak about his leg, since he wouldn’t attempt to pick me up if he thought he’d drop me or injure himself.

Anyway, his desirous, I want to ravage the fuck out of you gaze has me all hot.

My pulse thumps, and I lean my elbows back on the counter. “I have a problem,” I say in a silky voice.

He watches me. Just as I always watch him. “What’s that?”

“Someone knocked me up.” I have a hard time keeping a straight face, but so does he.

“I didn’t fucking notice,” he deadpans.

“Yeah, it’s been wild.” I smile. “Even if I’ve been banned from riding my motorcycle.” Doctor’s orders. There are a lot of cannots on my list at the moment. Same goes for Ryke, though, so hey, jealousy is out the window.

He nears me, his unshaven jaw very masculine and attractive at the current moment. “I haven’t asked you outright, and I’m fucking sorry I haven’t yet—but are you doing okay with no bike, no backflips, no running around?”

“Yeah. I think I’m doing okay so far.?

?? I stay serious as I say, “Small moments, like these, make me happy. I can feel it.” Shaking my bones.

And I think back to all of our Grand & Daring Stakeouts, and how we were never really upset if we didn’t catch a potential flour-bomber. The stakeouts weren’t about the future—just about staying happy and content within the moment.

To play. And to laugh. We can do that just by being together.

He clutches the counter by my hip. He pauses, grappling with his thoughts. “I honestly—I don’t know how I’d fucking be if I didn’t have you right now.”

My lungs swell, and I nod, understanding his sentiments. Feeling them rush through me. I hook my fingers through his belt loops, pulling him towards me. “Guess what I just caught and reeled in?” I say quietly.

His brows rise, a shadow of a smile playing at his lips. “What?”

“A broody eel. Are you going to electrocute me?” My eyes alight. “Please sting me hard.” I make a high-pitched noise, leaning my head back theatrically.

He pins me against the counter with his tall, rigid body, careful with my round belly. His large hand cups my face, his lips a breath from mine. “I’ll give you fucking hard, Calloway.” His jaw rubs against my cheek before he whispers, “Right here.” He cups my heat. Oh my God.

My breath is ragged.

His hand from my cheek begins its descent to my belly and shorts—and panties.

I watch all five of his fingers disappear beneath the waistband. My arms and legs tingle, and he teases the most sensitive—ahhh…an audible gasp catches in my throat. I grip his arm that offers me this head-rush.

I open my eyes wide, and they land on his. As amazing as this feels, we both silently seem to come to a realization: not here, not in the kitchen that we share with Lily and Lo.

We’ve learned our lesson.

We gently pull apart from each other, the silence deafening. My shallow breath circulates more sexual tension. Tension that we have to step over and ignore for a minute or five. We both face the cake, our arms reaching over one another, tangling as we go for knives and icing.