Same Time Next Year

It is a powerful thing, the way my heart begins to hang glide around my chest as soon as he’s close to me. “It’s probably terrible.”

“You remembered. And you made it. There’s no way it’s terrible.”

“Why is everyone so quiet?” I whisper.

Sumner reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “My grandma used to make broccoli cheddar soup. No one has made it since she passed. It was her thing.”

“Now it’s your thing,” said Sumner’s mother. “Britta’s famous broccoli cheddar.”

“This calls for a live taste test,” Syd yells. “Someone go get a spoon.”

“On it, honey,” sighs a husband, turning for the house and returning less than thirty seconds later with a fistful of spoons. “Here we go.”

“Oh, no. Really?” My voice is muffled when Sumner pulls me up against his chest, wrapping his arms around me and kissing the crown of my head. “Can’t we wait until everyone is drunk?”

That gets a round of laughs out of the family, but no one heeds my suggestion. Sumner’s sister opens the passenger side door and unbuckles the soup, then drops the container unceremoniously on the trunk of my Honda. Pops off the lid.

“Should I go first?” she asks.

Sumner drags me in that direction, still locked in his arms. “No way.

My wife made that soup. I get the first bite.”

I bury my face in his chest, groaning. Therefore, I sense, rather than see, someone hand Sumner a spoon. I use one eye to peek as he dips the

utensil into the still–piping hot broccoli cheddar soup, bringing a giant-size bite to his mouth. I’m momentarily mesmerized by his long corded throat and how it flexes when he swallows, but then I’m zipped back to reality, because he’s laughing.

And I can’t help it. I kind of start laughing, too, because it’s a relief to have a verdict either way. Not to mention, this whole scene is bananas. I’m standing in the street with my in-laws, who I was never supposed to meet, but they have now become a broccoli cheddar soup focus group, and the fact that this meeting is so unconventional is easing my nerves in a way I couldn’t have expected. “It’s that bad?” I ask him, still laughing.

“No. It’s that good, Britta.” I’m so shocked by this statement that I’m not prepared when Sumner tosses the spoon onto my trunk, draws me up onto my tiptoes, and plants a kiss on me, right there in front of his entire family.

They cheer, whistle, and bang on the roof of the car.

“Happy birthday,” I stammer against his lips when he draws back, my pulse going haywire over the look in his eyes. It’s . . . affection. The deep kind that I’ve never experienced.

“It’s more than happy.” He picks me up and carries me toward the house, locked tightly against his chest. “It’s my best birthday yet.”





Chapter Nine





SUMNER


Don’t get me wrong, I love watching Britta get to know my family. I could lean against the living room wall and witness their bond form forever—and I damn well plan on it. The way she starts laughing easier and easier with my sisters. How she answers my mother’s nine thousand questions about Sluggers, how we met, and if she wants babies someday (also, how many?). The patience she employs with my father when he launches into the intricacies of the Canadian economic system.

Britta is . . . fucking dynamite.

And they adore her. Just like I knew they would.

Just like I do.

My wife made me soup. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so close to tears in my life. And I wasn’t lying, the soup was an eleven out of ten. It doesn’t taste exactly like my grandmother’s, but that’s one of the things that makes it perfect. It’s uniquely Britta’s, and it’s not here to replace anything. It’s Britta’s spin.

Speaking of Britta and spins . . .

I really, really need to take her for one.

In case that wasn’t clear, I need to get her underneath me. Or on top of me. Or bent over something, just anywhere and any position, goddammit. It has been one hellish week since the last time I was inside this girl, and I’m about to lose my mind. Coming inside her once wasn’t even enough for one night, let alone a week.

There is one very big problem, however, and that is my parents, two of my sisters, their husbands, and three kids are crashing here on various couches and air mattresses tonight. Even if Britta slept in my bed and we

locked the door, the sounds would travel. Especially considering I plan to fuck her like the survival of the planet depends on her having an orgasm.

“Hey,” I say, trying to sound as casual as possible. “It’s, uh . . . getting late. Britta, you’re staying here tonight. Aren’t you? In my . . . room.”

Thankfully, my wife doesn’t catch the not-so-subtle looks my sisters send me.

The ones that say, Wow, dude, try and sound a little less like a horn dog.

“I mean, no, I didn’t really plan on it. You have a game tomorrow.”

My lips twitch, because I see where this is headed. “Yeah . . .”

“You need to get a good night’s sleep, right?” Everyone in the room snickers in response, and Britta’s cheeks turn pink as a result, followed by her backpedaling. “Not that you wouldn’t get a good night’s sleep if I were here. For whatever reason. That’s not what I meant.”

“It kind of was, though,” Chrissy says, patting Britta on the shoulder.

“You should stay. Have breakfast with us in the morning,” I say, casually sipping my soda, which I switched to from beer two hours ago, for this very reason. “I can drive you home real quick for a change of clothes.

Your toothbrush.”

“She doesn’t have a toothbrush here yet?” my mother, who did not make the switch from beer to soda, asks.

“She will,” I say, giving Britta a meaningful look. “Let’s go get your stuff. Sound good?”

A flicker of awareness in Britta’s eyes tells me she knows exactly what I’m doing. Trying to get her alone, so I can scratch this never-ending itch I’ve got for her. “Maybe in a few minutes . . . ,” she murmurs, winking at me. Crossing her legs in slow motion.

I’m sweating, ladies and gentlemen.

Will there ever be a time when I’m not a desperate, lust-fueled mess for my wife?

Nope. Definitely not.

“Well, even if you’re not here for breakfast,” my father starts, pushing the glasses higher on his nose. “We’ll see you at the game tomorrow night, won’t we, Britta?”

“Yes! You’re sitting with us in the family section, right?” adds my mother.

Britta jolts a little before setting down her drink on the coffee table.

“Oh, um . . .” She looks at me for help. “I’ll watch on TV, but I don’t really go to the games.”

“The bar is busiest during the games,” I say, trying to help. “She has to be there.”

“Right. Crowd control.”

A few surprised/curious glances are exchanged around the room, but everyone lets the subject drop and goes back to talking about fifteen different subjects at once, kids toddling through, drinks being spilled. Britta and I stare over the top of the pandemonium at each other, and I can see she’s conflicted about not coming to the game—and I don’t want that.