Page 33 of My Pucking Enemy (The Milwaukee Frost #4)

Luca

Easter has always been my least favorite of the holidays.

Just something about the ground being soft, the weather being not quite one thing or another, and the risk of snow encroaching on what is supposed to be spring—it makes the whole affair feel like an identity crisis.

But this year, I’m having a good time.

“So, explain to me what this ‘golden egg’ is,” Wren whispers, turning to me with a competitive gleam in her eye.

The moment we got to my parents’ house, people were already split up into teams, discussing strategy.

Callum and Sloane are whispering under their breath, Katie and some of the other cousins conspiring together, and even Cal’s grandparents—flown in from Ireland—are asking if there’s an age limit to the egg hunt.

“Every year,” I say, pulling her to the side so the others can’t hear me explaining the lore, “my parents do this overly elaborate egg hunt. Clues inside the eggs leading from one place to the other, stuff like that. And every year, my mom makes a golden egg. It’s like the grand prize.”

Wren laughs and crosses her arms.

It’s amazing to me how quickly she can change her look from one vibe to another. Today, she’s wearing a sweet, pastel plaid dress with a white turtleneck. Her hair is up in a bouncy, curly style, with loose waves framing her face and a little white bow tying the whole thing back.

Actually, maybe it shouldn’t be surprising.

Last night, while we talked about our experiences with Easter, she told me about how she’d learned to adapt herself while living with her dad.

Picking up whatever style suited the moment.

Often, that meant wearing pigtails and coming off as an innocent girl.

So it makes sense that she can go from wearing Doc Martens and a black choker to looking like the pastor’s daughter in a moment.

And I like it.

“Come on,” Wren says, drawing me out of my thoughts. “What can you possibly fit inside an egg to make it worth the trouble?”

“Last year,” Katie says, sidling up beside us and leaning in, “it was a trip for two to Alaska.”

Wren’s eyes go wide and she glances at me, apparently remembering my advice to her from Christmas—don’t listen to anything Katie says.

Except this time, she’s telling the truth.

I sigh. “I guess they’ve got money in their retirement.” They do—my parents have worked hard through life, and it helps that I bought them this house. The two of them have always been generous with their money, but this golden egg thing is too much.

When I told my mother that, she rolled her eyes.

It’s not like anyone in this family couldn’t just pay for the golden egg prize themselves.

It’s not about the reward, it’s about my parents’ love of competition, and wanting to see their grown children run around, fight with each other, and strategize to win.

In fact, finding the golden egg was the only part of our family traditions that Mandy ever took part in. Every year, she needled me to try and get clues from our parents. I’d tell her that whatever the prize was, I’d just get it for us too, but she said it wasn’t about that.

“Holy shit,” Wren mutters, turning to me with a spark in her eyes. “So, your family is nuts. You’ve been holding out on me.”

“Aren’t all families a little nuts?” Sloane asks from across the room.

I shoot a glare in her direction—so much for Wren and I having a private conversation.

“No more talking about the egg hunt!” Mom says, appearing in the doorway between the rooms wearing a creme blouse and a devilish smirk on her face. “Not until after dinner.”

Sloane lets out a happy sound. “Please. I’m starving.”

She’s big now, her belly her primary feature as Cal helps her up and toward the dining room. I move to follow them, but someone clears a throat beside me.

“Sorry, real quick,” Dad says. “We’ll be right in.”

Wren shoots me a look, something that says You good? I squeeze her hand and gesture for her to go on—Dad probably needs help hiding one of the eggs somewhere up high, maybe for Cal or one of our taller cousins.

“Just need a second, champ,” Dad says, looking uncharacteristically old.

I blink at him, catching up with the wrinkles around his eyes, the grays in his full head of hair.

Sometimes, it hits me that I’m not growing older in a vacuum.

The people around me are growing older, too.

“Alright,” I glance in the direction of the dining room.

Mom is probably busy doling out the amalgamation of juices she put together as a “fun Easter drink”, so we have some time. “What’s up?”

Sunlight streams in through the window behind him, and he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small velvet box. When he looks at me, it’s with equal measures of guilt and hope.

“I didn’t—” He clears his throat again, stops, and looks back at me.

“Basically, it’s this—I should have given you this ring for Mandy.

It’s a family thing, and Nan wanted it to go to you for your wife.

I conveniently forgot, and that wasn’t cool of me.

But I—well, all of us were confused by that marriage, son.

Anyway, I’m giving it to you now. I regret meddling, and not telling you about it for Mandy, but I’m also glad that Wren will be the first one to wear it after Nan did. ”

Everything comes out of him in one fell swoop, and it takes my brain a moment to catch up.

“Gerald!” Mom calls from the direction of the dining room. “Are you coming? Or do you want me to carve the ham?”

He’s been laboring in the kitchen for hours now, and there’s no chance he’s going to let Mom do the carving. “Coming!” he says, before clapping his hand on my shoulder and looking me deep in the eyes for moment.

“Dad—”

“Gerald!”

“We’ll talk later,” Dad says, starting to move past me. “I just wanted—well, I got the sense that things were getting serious with you and Wren. Thought I’d make sure you knew you had this ring as an option.”

And with that, he hurries in the direction of Mom’s voice, leaving me standing in the foyer with a tiny ring box and a heavy, beating heart.

***

I’m walking down the hallway, full of ham and mashed potatoes, trying to figure out where Wren has gone. The house is alive with shouts and arguments, teams working on their eggs, people running quietly, floorboards creaking under footsteps upstairs.

The ring box is burning a hole in my pocket, a physical symbol of the question running through my mind. Of Wren and me, what we are. The unspoken truth that this thing is no longer fake between us.

I told her I didn’t want her to marry anyone else. Since when do I have a hard time being direct?

Maybe since I’d had to worry that pushing too hard might drive her away from me.

I’m so lost in my thoughts that I let out a surprised noise when a hand reaches out and tugs on me, pulling me sideways.

“What the—?”

Wren laughs quietly—evilly—as she yanks me into a hallway closet and shuts the door, muffling the sounds of our family members completing the egg hunt outside.

I blink, trying to get my eyes to adjust to the lack of light in the closet, careful not to kick the Costco-size packs of soda along the floor.

“Got you,” Wren whispers.

“Yeah, you did.” My arms move around her, fingers skimming along her dress, the slight puckering of the fabric at the small of her back sending a shiver up my spine. “What are you doing?”

“Wanted to find somewhere quiet.”

“Aren’t you worried someone else is going to puzzle out the golden egg before you?”

Wren laughs quietly, and I feel the puff of air from it against the base of my throat. I want to scoop her into my arms, hold her against my chest, and keep her as close to me as physically possible.

I love being around my family. But I can’t stop myself from the urge to go home with Wren, to be alone with her. Touch her as much as I want, fold into the couch and hold her there with me.

It’s a different kind of quiet, having her pressed against me. I finally understand why people use weighted blankets—why having the press of something heavy and warm and alive is so appealing.

“It wouldn’t be fair,” Wren says. She trails her finger up my chest slowly, hooking it in the collar of my shirt and drawing me closer to her. “So I figured I’d sit this one out.”

When my lips meet hers, there’s that familiar spark of fire between us, gasping, touching, pulling, trying to get her as close as possible.

Here I am, wearing my Sunday best, visiting my family, and sliding my hand up her skirt until I’m squeezing her ass, wondering how quickly and quietly I could make her come without anyone knowing.

It’s just like that first time, in the alleyway, baiting the paparazzi to photograph us. I’ve never felt like this before. Insatiable. Wren makes me feel like the waiting is torture.

When she steps back onto something and slips, tilting to the side, I catch her, but not before something falls from the top shelf.

It’s not loud, but it’s disorienting, and a moment later, I’m flipping on the light, finding the object on the ground that was very close to hitting her right in the head.

“What…?” Wren whispers, kneeling down and picking it up. “Do they normally keep these in here?”

“No,” I move next to her, watch as she opens one of our old family photo books right in the middle, the plastic sleeves crinkling under her fingers.

“Holy shit,” she laughs, and at that moment, the door to the closet flies open and Sloane and Cal stand in the open spot, the rest of the family crowding around behind them seconds later.

“What was that?” Cal asks, concern on his face as his gaze skips over us.

“Son of a bitch,” Sloane swears, her hand going to her belly as though she’s covering the baby’s ears.

“Language,” Mom warns, her face lighting up when she sees what Wren holds in her hands.

“That’s gotta be a sign,” Katie mutters, her eyes flicking to the glittering golden egg—a printout, instead of a physical thing—between Wren’s fingers. She steps forward cheekily, shooting the two of us impressed looks. “Welcome to the family, Wren.”