Chapter 13

13

Cameron

“Are you sure it’s okay we’re here?” Dylan whispers, hopping off the golf cart as quietly as possible. Thankfully, I was able to corral him out of the cabin through the back door, so he didn’t notice that his beloved truck is still missing.

“Yes,” I whisper back, glaring at Logan behind me who thinks now is the perfect time to whistle an old-timey tune. He quiets immediately, and I add, making my way up the back steps of the main Preston house, “Just be very, very quiet.”

I unlock the back door and let my friends in first. Logan immediately walks into a chair, and it scrapes along the hardwood floors. Dylan slaps him upside the head while I curse him out. “Do not wake the beast!” I hiss through clenched teeth.

After going through the contents of our pantry and realizing we had fuck all ingredients to actually make a wedding cake, I came up with the brilliant idea of raiding my father-in-law’s kitchen. Since Demander had given me and Dylan (who knows why) the task, I could trust that he’d be stealth. Military training, you know? But then Logan overheard, and he was all, “I wanna come! I wanna come!” and so here we are.

It’s past midnight.

The house is quiet, all lights off, and I use my phone for a source of light. Dylan, aka Grandpa Banks, doesn’t carry a phone when he’s with Riley, but he has a mini flashlight attached to his keychain, so that’s what he’s using. “What are we even looking for?” Dylan asks.

I pull up the basic cake recipe on my phone at the same time Logan opens the fridge and announces, way too loud for my comfort, “Let there be light!”

“Shut the fuck up!” I hiss.

Logan chuckles.

Then the kitchen door opens, and I freeze at the sight in front of me. Sir Tom Preston’s gigantic robe-covered frame takes up the entire space of the doorway. That, alone, is intimidating enough, even without the shotgun he has aimed directly at me.

“Want me to disarm him?” Dylan asks, all cool and calm, as if there isn’t a man holding a gun right in front of him.

“No,” I say at the same time Tom lowers his weapon and flicks on the light.

Tom shakes his head as he says, “What the fuck, son?”

I take stock of the situation and what he must be thinking. Hearing noises downstairs, then opening the door to a dark room only to find three fully grown, yet completely immature, man-children, one of which he let his only daughter marry.

Good times.

Of the three of us, Dylan is the most normal in appearance. I’m still covered in red and yellow ketchup and mustard, courtesy of Jake, and Logan has fragments of eggshells on his forehead. Plus, he’s now helping himself to a plate of leftovers he must’ve found in the fridge.

Class act, we are.

“It’s, uh…” My voice wobbles, and I attempt to clear it. Almost fifteen years of being part of this family and Tom Preston still has the power to unnerve me. Don’t get me wrong. I love the man, but that doesn’t mean I’m less afraid of him. “It’s a long story, sir.”

“Not really,” Dylan tells him. “Jake and Mikayla decided to have an impromptu wedding, and Amanda tasked us with making a cake.”

“A wedding?” Tom asks.

“Yes, sir,” Dylan replies.

“Right now?” Tom again.

“Yes, sir.”

“And you three are making the cake?”

Logan tells him, “Demander demanded the demands.”

“Demander?”

“Amanda the Demander, sir,” I retort.

“Dad?” a voice calls from behind Tom. “What’s going on?”

Another voice. “Yeah, what’s going on?”

Tom moves to the side, revealing the twins, Lincoln and Liam, approaching.

Logan burps. “I think I may have drunk too much. My vision’s blurred, and I’m seeing double.”

“Ha-ha,” Lincoln deadpans. “We’ve literally never heard that one before.”

“Literally never,” Liam echoes, then asks, “What are you guys doing?”

Tom side-eyes them, answering for us, “Apparently they need ingredients to make a wedding cake.”

“Huh,” the twins respond, in sync.

Logan sighs. “Now I’m hearing double.”

I say, trying to defuse the situation, “We’ll be out of your hair in, like, two minutes.”

Logan lifts the plate he’s helped himself to. “This is really good, Mr. Preston. Did you?—”

“Yo, that’s mine,” Lachlan, the youngest Preston at fourteen, appears out of nowhere and steps into the room, taking the plate from Logan and reapplying the cling wrap. He sets it back in the fridge, closes the door, and stands in front of it, arms crossed.

Logan looks from Lachlan to the twins and back again. “Did I just time travel?”

I chuckle. I can’t help it. Then I quote a line from my favorite movie. “Where we’re going…” I wait for someone to finish it for me, but all I get is dead stares. I mumble to myself, “1.21 gigawatts.”

“There should be stuff in the pantry,” Tom says after a beat. “I’m going back to bed.”

Liam sighs, then quickly moves around the room, grabbing a bunch of ingredients for me. Just between me and me, I’ve always liked Liam the best, even going back to the days when I coached him in little league. Of all the Preston Punks, Liam gives me the least amount of shit. He hands me flour, some cans of fruit, milk, eggs, sugar and whipped cream. “This should do you.”

I open the carton of eggs, collect one, and crack it over Logan’s head. Then hand the carton back to him. “We have plenty of these. Thanks, Uncle Twinny,” I tell him, using Katie’s name for the twins. She can’t tell them apart yet, and I understand completely. Based on appearance alone, I only started to tell them apart last year.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Lachlan asks, looking up at Dylan.

Dylan squares his shoulders, crosses his arms, and grunts.

Lachlan nods once, then glances my direction. “Cool dude.”

“We better get started on this,” I tell them, lifting the ingredients. “We’re working against the clock.”

The Preston boys file out of the kitchen without saying a word, switching off the light as they leave.

I hand Dylan our supplies so I can lock up and then get back on the golf cart. It’s not until we’re back at the cabin and have the ingredients set out on the counter that I realize we didn’t even get everything the recipe needed. “Shit.”

Dylan shoves me out of the way, then rolls up his sleeves. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I got this.”

“You burned the cookies,” Logan reminds him.

Dylan chuckles, turning to Logan. “You’re not even supposed to be on our team.”

“Yeah,” I joke. Then mock, “You don’t even go here.”

“Fuck y’all,” Logan laughs out, retrieving a mixing bowl. “Best cake wins. Winner takes all.”

“Define all, ” Dylan questions.

Logan pulls out his wallet, slams it on the counter. “Whatever is in there.”

I check the wallet, count out the cash. “Two dollars and fifteen cents.”

Dylan shakes Logan’s hand. “Deal.”