“Damn straight it does.”

“There’s just something so primal about him. So ethereal.”

“And?” I ventured. Cookie didn’t usually say much without an ulterior motive.

“I worry about him. About him being a dad.”

Surprised, I stopped and straightened my shoulders. “What do you mean?” Then, as a possible explanation sank in, I felt my eyes widen. “Do you think he’ll be a bad father?” I turned and looked toward the door to make sure he’d left.

“No,” she said with a soft chuckle. “I’m afraid he will sever the spine of any boy who breaks our girl’s heart.”

“Oh,” I said, relief flooding me. But she had an incredibly well thought-out point. “Oh. You’re right. I didn’t think of that.”

“You might want to discuss dating guidelines with him now. You know, before she turns five.”

“Five?” I screeched. “Why five?”

The smile that spread across her face was one of practiced stoicism, as though she were talking to a mental patient. “And just when did you become interested in boys?”

“Oh, shit.”

“Exactly.”

2

IRONY: THE OPPOSITE OF WRINKLY.

—T-SHIRT

Two hours later, a wonderful woman named Hildie was doing Cookie’s hair—thankfully, because I had no idea what to do with it—Amber was reading nursery rhymes to Beep, and I was eating strawberries atop my lofty position on a very swank divan named David Beckham. David sat by the window so I could look out at all the colors of autumn. He was thoughtful that way. He knew how much I loved fall, and fall in the Jemez Mountains was nothing short of spectacular.

“Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,” Amber said, reading from a picture book she’d bought Beep. She glanced at my belly as though to check if Beep were paying attention.

“Humpty didn’t have much of a life, did he?” I commented.

“Humpty Dumpty had a great fall,” she continued, ignoring me. It was weird.

“Lack of exercise. No hand–eye coordination.”

“All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.”

“Okay, stop right there,” I said, a strawberry hovering near my mouth. “How are the king’s horses going to help put an egg back together? Seriously. They’re horses.”

Amber was Cookie’s thirteen-going-on-thirty-year-old daughter. She had what I’d begun to suspect was a touch of clairvoyance. She’d surprised me on several occasions with her knowledge or her visions of things to come, and she seemed to have a special connection with Beep. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Beep was calmer when Amber was around. It was uncanny.

She sat in a chair beside me, her dark hair hanging in long ringlets down her back, her huge blue eyes concentrating on the pages before her. We were all in slips and robes—except Cookie, who was only in a slip underneath a massive hairdresser’s cape—even though the wedding wasn’t for another couple of hours. But both Amber’s and my hair had been done already, our nails appliquéd to perfection, our makeup soft and sparkly. It had a hint of glitter in it. I argued that my face was shiny enough without adding glitter, but Cookie insisted. She wanted princesses in her wedding, and by damn, we were going to be princesses. I refrained from telling her princesses didn’t wear glitter. Pole dancers wore glitter.

“It’s a fairy tale,” Amber said with a giggle, looking toward the door again. Uncle Bob was bringing Quentin up for the wedding. Quentin was her best friend and the current love of her life. I had to admit, the kid had stolen my heart at first glance. I couldn’t imagine what he’d do to an impressionable girl. Thankfully, Cookie was too old for him.

“Do you think anyone will show up?” Cookie asked me. Again. While Amber was keeping a constant vigil on the door, Cookie was keeping watch over the drive to the convent.

“Yes,” I said, trying not to laugh at her impatience. “Now, stop fidgeting.” Poor Hildie. “Do you guys want anything?” I stuffed the last of the strawberries into my mouth and picked up my phone.

“Again?” Cookie asked. “That poor man.”

“Are you kidding? Have you seen my ass? This is all his fault.”

“Okay, then I’ll take a water.”

“And I’ll take an orange soda,” Amber chimed in.

“You got it. Hildie?”

“I’m good,” she said, her brows furrowing in concentration.

I texted Reyes. I’d been doing that a lot. Texting demands to my minions. Being fertilized had its upside. Two minutes later, Reyes, wearing a T-shirt and jeans, had raided the kitchen that was down the stairs, past the foyer, and through a great hall—in other words, way too far for me to walk at the moment—and delivered our order.

He handed me a water with a wink. He’d showered, but had yet to shave. Or comb his hair. Or groom himself in any way. Gawd, he was sexy.

“Is that what you’re wearing to the wedding?” I asked, teasing him.

In an act that stunned me to my toes, my uncle had asked Reyes to be his best man. They’d grown very close over the past few months—a good thing, since it was basically my uncle Bob who’d put Reyes in prison. But even Reyes had to admit to the insurmountable evidence against him. Earl Walker, the monster who’d raised him, made sure Reyes would be convicted of his murder, and convicted he was. At least until the cops found Earl very much alive.