“Can it, Callahan.”

“Shut the fuck up with your can, this is me. Give me the deets please.”

“The deets are that it’s an impossible question to answer. Besides, who says we have to decide where it’s heading right now? I’m heading in the direction of the biggest hot dog I can find.” This placated her for a moment, and we moved up another space in line. But then she simply couldn’t resist . . .

“At least tell me something about his hot dog,” she said, shooting me a conspiratorial look.

“It’s in the direction of the biggest hot dog I can find,” I repeated.

“I knew it! I fucking knew it!” she cackled, squeezing my arm. “Sometimes it’s like God handed out great bodies and beautiful faces, but then absolutely nothing in the trouser department, and it’s just the worst! And Oscar is so beautiful, I was afraid for his trousers.”

I laughed in agreement. It was rare that someone so blessed above was so blessed below. And some of the least attractive guys could have the most talented cock out there. But not often did the two converge. And I was beyond delighted to have that convergence occur between my thighs.

I leaned in close. “Be not afraid of his trousers, for it is good and we are well met.”

“I love when you go all Middle-earth on me,” she said, just as I heard one of the kids behind us ask—

“What the hell are trousers?”

“I think they’re some kind of old-timey pants,” one of the other ones answered.

She caught my eye, and we silently agreed to keep the rest of our conversation trouser-free as long as we remained in line.

“Three hot dogs, please,” I chirped to the guy behind the counter.

“How d’you want them?” he asked, gesturing to the array of condiments.

I had no idea. When in doubt, go bold.

“One with just mustard, and put everything on the other two.” I grinned as I watched him pile them high with all kinds of goodies, thinking that Oscar seemed like an everything kind of guy.

Once we were headed back I looked up over the hot dogs I’d procured for my man, and his eyes met mine. Pure heat burned across the barnyard and made my pulse once more go crazy fast.

Then my gaze shifted a smidge to the right, and the heat turned to fury. Because seated next to Oscar, sandwiching herself right in the middle of the bench, was none other than ex-wife Missy, looking decidedly wifelike as she set a tray of hot dogs right in front of my guy.

“Oh, sister, did you pick the wrong seat,” I seethed, and Roxie looked where my eye daggers were landing.

“Oh boy,” she muttered, and tried to step in front of me. “Take a breath, Nat. Just—”

“I’m calm,” I said through my teeth as I continued toward the table. “Perfectly calm.”

So calm, in fact, that when we reached the table, I stepped up onto the bench between Leo and Polly, stepped up on top of the table, stood in front of Oscar with my tray of hot dogs and smiled down sweetly at Missy.

“Thanks for saving my seat, Missy.”

I set my foot down between them on the bench, turning at the last minute to place my posterior directly in her face, then wiggled down into the space she suddenly had to vacate.

Across the table Leo, Polly, Chad, and Logan were all staring back at me with dropped jaws, and behind them Roxie shook her head with a tightly drawn mouth.

Oscar, however, looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

“Hot dog?” I asked brightly, setting the tray down in front of him.

“Looks good,” he answered, running a hand along his jaw and failing to conceal his laughter miserably. “Which one is mine?”

“The two with everything,” I replied with a grin, picking up his bottle of beer and draining half in one draft. “Thirsty.”

I felt an insistent tapping on my shoulder, and though I at first tried to ignore her, it soon became clear that she wasn’t going away.

“Yes, Missy?” I asked in my nicest voice, turning toward her.

“Oscar doesn’t like his hot dogs like that,” she chirped, looking over my shoulder at the tray.

“Sorry?”

“Oscar never gets anything but mustard on his hot dogs.”

“You don’t say,” I answered, trying to keep my cool. Who the hell did she think she was? Ex-wife meant ex- on having a say; ex- on being a know-it-all; ex- on weighing in on anything about Oscar.

She looked carefully at the tray in front of him, cataloguing everything that was wrong with the wieners. She raised a critical eyebrow, cocked her head to the side, and through tiny pursed lips said, “And he hates onions. Did you know he hates onions?”

I let a smile creep across my face—the smile I used for creepy guys on the subway and men who make fat jokes. Part Stepford, part demon, all New York City Don’t Mess With Me. “How would I know he doesn’t like onions? We’ve been too busy fucking.”

Leo picked Polly up and spirited her away from the table, shaking his head in the same way Roxie had, while Polly giggled something about needing a larger piggy bank.

Chad and Logan stopped cold, their mouths full of hot dog.

Roxie was frozen, too, but the O shape of her mouth was more resigned than surprised.

Missy’s eyes filled with tears, first the edges, then spilling into the center, blending with her now visible mascara to make mud.

Oscar’s hand settled on my shoulder. And it felt . . . different. Could a hand feel disapproving? I turned and saw his face—and holy shit, that eyebrow was beyond disapproving.

Missy climbed out of the seat and took off for the barn. I caught the image out of the corner of my eye, and it wasn’t lost on me that her hands were over her eyes.

How is she managing to navigate, then?

Inner snark, it’s time to stand down.

Now Oscar was standing up—and looking down at me with an unidentifiable expression. Confusion? Hurt? Shame?

Disappointment.

“Oh come on,” I muttered as he squeezed my shoulder, then took off in a slow jog in the same direction as Miss Missy.

“How is this . . . but why would he . . . but she knew that . . . and I didn’t mean . . . but she’s always around and . . . son of a bitch.” I slumped onto the seat I’d claimed so dramatically and studied the hot dogs. “How was I supposed to know he didn’t like onions?”