Must Love Logs (Must Love Series Book 4)

by Xavier Neal

  Yasmine swears once the holidays subside it’ll be easier on all of us.

  Not feeling convinced as of now.

  “Went to Kenny’s Karate practice this week,” Oliver casually informs. “He does really well.”

  Hiding the sadness that I haven’t seen him in action yet is hard. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. He’s much better than all the other kids, and that’s not just because I’m his uncle and required by law to say that.”

  I lightly snigger.

  “He’s really focused whenever the instructor is talking. He’s completely dedicated whenever following a direction. It’s pretty amazing to watch.”

  I bet it is…He’s more like me in that aspect than his father. The jump between whatever catches your mood shit is something I initially did out of spite growing up. It eventually just became my second nature. Baking and Eddie were the only two things that ever managed to constantly keep my attention.

  “Kyle, on the other hand, does a great job reminding us all why we’re thankful they have an indoor playground attached to the studio.”

  More chuckles seep out as the music transitions into a slow song.

  Oliver places one hand respectfully on my hip and the other with mine. “Still lovin’ the new job?”

  “Definitely.”

  Mostly.

  “Is this the first time you’ve ever worked for a bakery?”

  “Kind of.” My head bobs around. “I interned at one and then-”

  “Wait. Interned?” Confusion cloaks his expression. “Did you go to culinary school?”

  “For Pastry Arts.”

  “As in, what you do now.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why…is this the first I’m hearing about it?” He tries to keep the irritation out of his tone. “Is this one of those things everyone but me knew?”

  “I don’t think so. I mean Eddie knows because well, he’s married to me, and Dawn knows because she’s my best friend.”

  “Mama and Pop?”

  “Well, yeah. They know everything like your mother is some kinda goddamn soothsayer.”

  He can’t resist chuckling.

  “But…in general, it’s not something I just go around shouting from rooftops.”

  “Why not?” We continue to gently move to the music. “Are you…embarrassed?”

  “Maybe…a little…”

  “What? Why?”

  “Come on, Oliver. Most people I meet have much more impressive degrees, you included. Besides, it’s not like I actually did anything with mine before now. Making cheesecake for everyone I know isn’t exactly a posh profession.”

  “By definition it’s not a profession because you were unpaid.”

  “Thank you for that.”

  “But, just because you weren’t being paid to use those skills doesn’t make them less valuable.” The proclamation is proceeded by a warm smile. “Doesn’t make you less valuable. You went to school for something you loved. You worked hard at it. You completed it. That’s worth bragging about just as much as working for an extremely successful pastry shop is. You’re more than just a small-town woman who had big-city dreams. You’re a small-town woman who went after them and made them come true. That’s a helluva thing. Be proud.”

  His words touch me deeper than anticipated.

  He’s right. Working for a company like the one I work for now was always the dream. It wasn’t what my parents wanted. Putting myself through school was a nightmare. Debt piled on top of debt. By the time I graduated, taking the time to look for work in my field wasn’t an option. I had to take what I could get, which was the fresh baked section at our local grocery store during the day and bartending at night. There was never a plan to stay there or anywhere really. It was more of a necessity to pay the bills and stop from fulfilling my parents demands that I settle down with a good wholesome boy who would make sure my summer dresses always covered my ankles. Because of Eddie, I didn’t have to stay stuck somewhere it was clear I didn’t want to be. He swooped me away to Highland where I knew, just knew, I would get the kind of job I always dreamed of someday…Never imagined it would come half a decade later after two kids.

  Guess I should be grateful it came. Better late than never.

  Maybe transitioning into my dream job is more difficult than I imagined, but at the end of the day I know it’s what’s best for me. I love baking. I love being covered in flour and smelling like sugar. I love the artistic side that finally gets to shine outside of someone’s birthday party.

  I’m finally fulfilled in ways that had been missing.

  I feel…less lost.

  Yes, it’s an adjustment for my household, but one that is worth it.

  One that I’m not going to take for granted.

  One that I’m going to do everything possible to make sure it counts.

  Chapter 6

  Who plays Flip Cup at their brother’s wedding?

  The Shaws.

  Or at least two of us do when we’re already a little tipsy, which tends to unleash the alpha asshole challenge mode in all of us.

  “Bring it the fuck on,” I taunt Big Foot while our wives fill the cups on the table.

  “Don’t know why you insist on playin’,” he continues to merrily jeer. “You’re shitty at every sport.”

  “Definitely every non-drinking sport,” Sienna mutters loudly.

  I gripe over the collective laughter, “My side, Cherry Pie. Be on my goddamn side.”

  “When you have a valid point or rebuttal that’s exactly where I am.” She reaches the end of the rectangle table we pulled to the back corner of Wally’s Wild West. “But you don’t. Because Big Foot is absolutely right. You’re allergic to balls.”

  “Cherry Pie, you should be grateful I’m allergic to balls, or you wouldn’t have me as a husband or our two wonderful boys.”

  She gags at my juvenile joke.

  “Is this really a good idea?” Dawn cautiously questions taking her position beside Big Foot. “I mean…we are at a wedding.”

  “At a bar,” Sienna and I emphasize in unison.

  “Dance hall,” she quickly corrects.

  “That’s jus’ the small-town way of sayin’ bar,” Sienna brushes off.

  I add another made up fact. “We can’t call everything a bar, so we have to get clever with names…Like callin’ this place a dance hall.”

  Dawn snickers at the same time she shakes her head at our antics.

  Wally’s Wild West is…technically called a dance hall. In reality? It’s just an oversized bar. A bar we as Shaws fucking love and adore hanging out at, but a bar, nonetheless. Whenever there’s more room to drink booze than there is to dance, it makes it a bar. Plain and simple. Just because our lovely wives did an HGTV style makeover on it to properly celebrate a wedding doesn’t rewrite the years and years and years it has spent getting us wasted while listening to shitty cover bands. As a family, we were thrilled this was where they chose, considering the amount of memories this place holds for us as brothers, as well as couples, individually and collectively. Then there’s the simple fact it’s a laid-back environment, meaning no strangling ties, no uptight catering, and most importantly, no fucking dress shoes. Shoes by this point in the night are actually optional.

  “We jus’ drinkin’ or bettin’ too?” Sienna asks, reaching her place at my side.

  “I’m in for bettin’,” I instantly state.

  Big Foot gives me a skeptical look. “What kinda bet?”

  “Losin’ team has to watch the winning team’s kids overnight.”

  He villainously chuckles at my suggestion.

  “Did you forget they have five kids?” Sienna chastises me. “Five. You can barely handle our two.”

  “First off, I’ve mastered the art of handlin’ our boys.”

  Lie.

  Huge fucking lie.

  Learning to wrangle those little assholes has good days and pray to God for mercy ones.

  Anytime I finally think
I’ve got the hang of everything, packing the right lunches, finishing the right homework, they throw a goddamn curveball my direction. Like how the fuck was I supposed to know that as lead parent in a room, my chaperoning field trips isn’t voluntary, but fucking mandatory? And when did it become a “Holiday Party” instead of a fucking Christmas one? And why is the list of shit I cannot say and serve so much lengthier than one I can? Oh, and let’s not forget the random behavior discussions I have to have with my youngest because he cusses like his parents when he gets frustrated. Nothing like being asked to stay after class when you’re nearing forty.

  “Bullshit.” Big Foot’s head tilts sarcastically at me. “Just…bullshit.”

  “Second of all,” I barrel past the obvious dishonesty, “we’re not gonna lose, so it’s really not an issue.”

  My older brother momentarily redirects his attention to his wife. “How does spendin’ Valentine’s Day at a luxury suite in downtown Highland sound?”

  She coos sweetly. “Like heaven.”

  Big Foot grins widely at me. “Done.”

  The corners of my lips tilt towards the ceiling seconds prior to me peering down at Sienna. “Concert?”

  Her expression grows intrigued. “Who?”

  “Anyone but Fall Out Boy.”

  Sienna’s pout is immediate.

  “Every man has limits.”

  Fall Out Boy is definitely mine.

  “But-”

  “Nope.”

  “Superman-”

  “Nope.” I promptly shake my head. “I’m a grown-ass man, Cherry Pie. I will not stand in a room of full teenage girls or grown-ass women actin’ like teenage girls for four dudes with more tattoos than talent.”

  Big Foot and Dawn poorly hide their laughter.

  “Fine,” Sienna heavily sighs. “But I’m picking someone you hate equally as much.”

  Leave it to my wife to turn what would be a romantic night away into a punishment.

  “Fine.” My shrug is met with a smirk. “We callin’ it a bet?”

  Sienna turns her smug grin to our opponents. “We are.”

  The ladies shake hands, and so do we.

  Big Foot and I grab the first plastic cup to begin the game.

  Together we chant and clink, “Truck races, truck races, let’s chug a cup. Truck races, truck races, let’s get fucked up.”

  Downing the third of a beer faster than my brother doesn’t go smoothly. Despite how incredible our brother’s beer tastes, the reality is, I haven’t chugged beer in probably a year. Something involving shots is usually the chosen choice for games, making whiskey the appropriate pick. However, I wouldn’t exactly be handling that much better.

  His attempts to flip the object continuously end in the same result. Each time he makes the effort, the cup ends up on the ground, and he grumbles in frustration.

  Dawn takes the opposite approach of my wife who started verbally assaulting me the instant Big Foot finished chugging before me. She cheers on her other half, reassuring he’s got this while Sienna huffs at me in annoyance over my lack of coordination.

  “We’re on the same team!” I bite at her. “A little support, Cherry Pie!”

  Big Foot manages his success right as I finish my griping.

  Dawn blows him a kiss before she goes bottoms up.

  “Fuck,” my mutters are proceeded by me concentrating a little harder. I take a long deep breath, nestle my two fingers underneath, and give the object a forceful flick. Finally, the cup lands face down on the table. “Yes!”

  The word hasn’t even finished leaving my mouth when Sienna is gulping down her beer.

  Big Foot anxiously watches Dawn fight with the plastic object to land properly, however, knowing my wife, I go ahead and move around her, taking my waiting position behind the next cup.

  As predicted on the first try, Sienna executes a successful flip. “Suck it, Shaws!”

  I start guzzling my beer at the same time Big Foot chortles, “You do know you’re a Shaw, right?”

  “Yeah, but I’m a this Shaw. Y’all are a that Shaw.”

  Putting my cup on the edge of the table, I argue, “That doesn’t make any goddamn sense.”

  “Glad I’m not the only one who thinks that,” Big Foot lightly laughs.

  “Woohoo!” Dawn squeaks when her cup lands the correct way.

  “Good job, Little Lady.”

  My brother’s compliment is given right as my cup lands face down.

  Sienna swiftly switches to the next cup and chugs, our victory on the horizon.

  To my surprise, they don’t manage to catch up nor does Sienna stop her shouting at me until we’re officially triumphant.

  Her arms are thrown straight up into the air the moment her final cup meets the objective. “Yes!”

  “Fuck, yes!” I exclaim, turning my body her direction. “That’s what I’m fuckin’ talkin’ about, Cherry Pie!” My arms wind around her, and I spin us around in a small circle. “We owned that shit!”

  When her feet touch the ground again, she gives our best friends a challenging glare. “Double or nothin’?”

  My sigh is heavy and immediate. “Why can’t you ever jus’ quit while you’re ahead?”

  “Not my style.”

  Big Foot laughs and drapes his arm around his wife.

  Before anyone can say another word, Pop dramatically clears his throat, commanding our attention. Once he has it, he questions, “Did y’all really set up a drinking game at your little brother’s weddin’?”

  Guilt grows in our expressions.

  “Yes sir,” Big Foot bravely answers.

  Always been the responsible one. Or…more responsible I should say. He owned up to whatever trouble we caused and took the consequences like a man. He always encouraged the rest of us to do the same, but there’s only so many times your mother can spank your ass with kitchen utensils before lying looks like the better option.

  “Why didn’t anybody invite me or Mama over?” He raises his mason jar filled with beer to his lips. “Afraid of losin’?”

  “Big talk, old man,” Sienna playfully teases.

  “Who you callin’ old?” His dark eyebrows lift. “I’m aged. I’m like good ol’ fine beer.”

  “Whiskey, Pop,” I casually correct on a chuckle. “Whiskey gets better with age. Not beer.”

  “Old beer taste like shit,” Big Foot agrees.

  “And ten bucks says, Pop plays Flip Cup like shit, so maybe it’s a good comparison?” Sienna snickers.

  We all laugh together.

  Afterward, Pop wags a finger her direction. “You’re gonna be swallowin’ those words as soon as I find my wife.”

  “We’re not playin’ Flip Cup against Mama and Pop,” I quickly deny.

  “Why not?”

  “We’ll lose.”

  My answer receives more snickers.

  “Superman-”

  “Nope.”

  She pokes her bottom lip out at me, a tactic that even after nine years I’m still not the greatest at fighting.

  “No, Cherry Pie. Bettin’ against Big Foot and Dawn is one thing. Bettin’ against Mama and Pop is just beggin’ for trouble.”

  Pop gives us a toothy grin. “Oh, we’re bettin’, too?”

  We weren’t blessed with parents who let you win. No. We were blessed with the types who bring their full “A” game to whatever it is we’re doing. When Pop taught us to play poker, we were betting our favorite cookies. When he taught us about betting on sports, we were putting up household chores as collateral. And when we were walking around like king shit because we could beat the best of our buds in booze games, he not only knocked our asses down to the ground by out drinking us, he made sure we did ranch work, hungover. Nothing like the smell of cow shit mixed with vomit to remind you why you shouldn’t challenge the patriarch of your family.

  “Nope,” I continue my denial, arm now slung over my wife’s shoulder. “You’re not ropin’ me into doin’ some outrageous shit this
time around.”

  “This time?” Sienna curiously inquires.

  “Last time, I made a bet with Pop I ended up havin’ to replace all the kitchen tile by myself.”

  “At least I didn’t make you pay for it, too.”