“And any lap will do,” Luke said. “That’s actually how she got her name. She’s very smart, very sweet, and very needy, so I named her after Molly Hooper on Sherlock.”

Beside Michael, Ellie squealed. “My cat’s name is Watson!”

Since she remained tucked into Michael’s side, he tried not to let his jealousy ride him. It wasn’t that hard since even as Luke and Ellie started comparing notes on their pets, Luke kept shooting little glances at Olivia, obviously trying to figure out what she was thinking and what kind of impression he was making. Since her expression remained completely blank, it was really anyone’s guess.

“Girls have cooties.”

Ellie’s nose burned as she nearly snorted sangria. It was kind of potent sangria. But still, listening to Adam very drunkenly, very seriously tell Jake that girls had cooties was hilarious.

Sitting on Adam’s lap, Angel was looking a bit ticked off. Possibly because she couldn’t get drunk, or possibly because her fiancé and baby daddy had just said she had cooties. “We do not!”

“Yes, you do,” Adam insisted, turning his head to face her. “It’s proven scientific fact; women have more germs on their hands than men do.”

“Probably because men ask us to put our hands in such strange places!”

Adam made a little growling noise, his hand on Angel’s belly as he tipped her back slightly to press his face towards her neck. “I’ll put your hands in a strange place.”

“Oooookay, and Adam’s officially wasted,” Jake said, laughing as he took Adam’s arm to pull him back upright.

He wasn’t the only one.

“What the hell is in this sangria?” Ellie mumbled, lifting up her glass and staring into it like it had all the answers. The fruit floated and bobbed, but did not reveal their secrets.

“What?” asked Michael, leaning in closer.

Like he wasn’t already super, duper close. Arm around her, legs intertwined, hands held. Pretty much all over her, really. She liked it.

“You like what?” he asked, sounding a little bit more exasperated.

Ellie giggled, and it seemed kind of far away. Like, weirdly far away and disconnected. “Oh my god, I’m drunk!”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Sharon said from where she was laying on the floor. Ellie frowned. When had she gotten down there? “What the hell was in the sangria, Justin?!”

On the other side of the sectional from Michael and Ellie, Justin was given his own giggling girlfriend a foot massage. She and Hilary had finally stopped screaming at the television around the end of the third quarter when it became very obvious the Redskins didn’t have a chance in hell of a comeback, despite having gone into halftime with a slight lead. Looking up from his task, Justin shrugged.

“Moscato, peach brandy, and fruit.”