“For Armageddon?”

“For vacation with two children.” Bounce. “Who knows how many outfit changes we’ll need, and I packed the good camera because, you know, memories, and then the books take up a ton of space.”

“How many books are you bringing?”

“Five.”

“Jesus…”

I huff. “It’s a series, Dean.”

Dean chuckles, relieving me of my struggle and nudging me off the suitcase. He places his palm against the top and presses down, successfully zipping it on the first attempt.

I flip my hair back, puckering my lips together. “That was kind of hot.”

“Only you would get turned on by me zipping up a suitcase,” he winks.

I narrow my eyes teasingly. “Let’s hope so.”

We’re about to lean in for a kiss when Mandy and Reid shuffle up behind us with four dogs at their feet.

“Sorry we’re late,” Mandy says, scooping Penny Lane into her arms and peppering kisses along her snout. “Are the beasts ready for us?”

Jude, Lucy, and Rigby sit patiently, tails wagging, as Penny is placed back down between them. Mandy is the resident dog-sitter. She and her husband, Reid, take the animals back to their house once a year when we go on our annual vacation.

Mandy and Reid have been married for seven years now. Reid proposed on New Year’s Eve, just a month after his conversation with Dean, and Mandy walked down the aisle one year later. I finally got to stand up in my sister’s wedding as her maid of honor and with Dean as Reid’s best man, and there was a hell of a lot tears, joy, forgiveness, and full circle. Then Mandy and Reid stood up in our wedding six months later, and we all cried some more.

“The beasts look ready,” I smile, reaching for the leashes hanging along the wall and turning around to look for the kids. “Speaking of beasts, where did Aiden and Brooklyn disappear to?”

Dean slides over to us, giving Mandy a quick hug and fist bumping Reid over her shoulder. “They’re in the kitchen grabbing snacks.”

“Mom!”

The sound of my name pulls me into the kitchen of our two-story house, locating both kids carrying hot mugs of coffee around the island in their unsteady hands. Yikes.

Aiden, our six-year-old son, holds up the cup as hot liquid splashes over the rim. “We got your coffee ready. It’s already after eight o’clock, and I know how you get.”

Well.

He’s not wrong.

I try not to panic as the dark roast seeps into my hardwood floors and accept the offering. “This is so thoughtful of you. It’s very hot, though, so grab me or your dad next time.”

Our five-year-old daughter, Brooklyn, sets her mug down on the table. “Here’s yours, Dad!”

Dean steps away from his football-infused conversation with Reid and joins us, shooting me a wink as he reaches for his mug. “Thanks, princess. Such service.”

Dean and I take a sip of our respective coffees.

Then we simultaneously spit it out.