Chapter 2

Brynley

I may be a bit bias, but I’m just gonna say it anyway.

I wear the gold shirt in this family for a fucking reason.

Who just bought their nine-year-old daughter a purple, five-string violin for Christmas?!

This Captain.

Right here.

The same one who last minute arranged for her family to go to a midnight showing of How the Grinch Stole Christmas to help calm her other nine-year-old’s nerves about her big performance in the charity production hosted by her family’s company in which all proceeds – tickets as well as concessions – go to helping provide holiday gifts for children in homeless shelters.

It’s a win-win for all involved.

Blakely gets the gift of acting on stage – her favorite shit in the world – and other kids get to open presents on Christmas morning, perhaps getting something they want or need.

However, I just wanna be clear.

Blakely didn’t get the role because her last name is Wilcox.

No.

She had to audition just like everyone else.

And she pre-emptively agreed to accept whatever part she was given with “jingle bells” on.

Luckily for her, all the acting classes and late-night line rehearsing with her big brother paid off.

She’s Cindy Lou Who.

And I’m simply the grateful Who that has a best friend well versed in hair along with makeup, which will guarantee she looks equally as good as she acts.

Neither of my girls became ocean obsessed; however, both fell in love with Star Trek and Batman.

Just…not in the ways we would’ve thought.

Blakely loves acting.

Accents.

Sir Patrick Stewart, Michael Dorn, Sir Michael Cain, and Morgan Freeman are all acting staples in her “study” materials.

From the minute she watched her first episodes, she did her best to recreate all of their movements and inflictions.

Side log?

It’s hilarious as fuck to listen to a four-year-old try to speak Klingon only to then have her big brother poorly correct her with his own shittily spoken version.

Definitely one of those I should’ve caught it on video moments.

Now, Braelyn on the other fin?

She went in the opposite direction.

She became mesmerized by the music .

The soundtracks became the only thing she would even fall asleep to.

She still plays them to help her drift off.

And as much as they may look like me – we’re talking miniature duplicates with slightly lighter skin – they’re nothing like me attitude wise.

They’re both neat.

And organized.

And anal retentive about time, which is ironic to me considering they were born prematurely.

Patience is something they’ve always had in abundant supply – even when they were babies – while compromise is their second language.

Are they pushovers?

Absolutely not.

Not when shit matters to them.

Like Blakely forcing me to buy the entire front row for her pending performance or Brae guilting me into finding an orchestra bootcamp for her over the summer.

No.

When it comes to shit, they give a fuck about?

They’re balls to the wall my kids, just like their brother.

It’s the other eighty to ninety percent of the time where they flex their “no need to make a fuss” muscles that I question their genetics.

I blame their uncle Puppet Boy.

That’s so him.

Unlike his two sons – James Jacob Reese or J.J. who was born the same year as the twins and Ryker Jeffrey Reese or R.J. who was born a year behind them – that are more like me and Nae .

Loud.

Messy.

Rebels for whatever cause they can think of at that particular moment.

You know, more likely to ask for forgiveness rather than permission.

By the way, that’s so not something Puppet Boy loves on pizza and movies night.

But it’s not my fault they love jalape?os, prosciutto, and hot honey on their thick crust.

Okay.

It’s not all my fault.

It’s their mom’s too!

She gave birth to them!

She should definitely share the blame!

“ Mom, mom, ” Blakely begins in an unexpected panic, fingers tugging impatiently on my short, green, “Drink Up, Grinches” fitted dress, “what if I miss my song cue?!” Another frantic pull is delivered. “What if the stage crew misses my song cue?!” More yanks at the stretchy fabric are executed. “The music people! The music people are gonna miss my song cue!”

“Why do you always blame the music department?” Brae grumps on a huff, glasses covered face leaning over the seat behind us. “Why can it never be anyone else’s fault?!”

“When has it ever been anyone else’s fault?!”

“Just because something hasn’t happened, doesn’t mean it can’t!”

And here’s that good ol’ “Bryn passion” Mom loves to tease me about.

Ugh.

I knew I should’ve ridden in the other SUV.

Watching Franken No Fun squirm from being serenaded by his can’t hold a tune or a beat husband, Templeton Holmes, next to Clark and Mom is definitely better than listening to the girls bicker.

Again.

I’d swear that that’s all they do if it weren’t for Temps’s reassurances that they don’t.

That seventy to eighty percent of the time they’re closer than a pair of sand tiger sharks post being abandoned by their mate.

And he’d know.

It’s his job to know.

He’s their manny.

During our first trip to Doctenn – to thank Kellan and Brie in person and retrieve our son along with the rest of our family – the two met through some of our mutual connections and instantly fell for each other.

I mean adorable love at first accent type of shit.

He initially came back with us for what was supposed to be an extended vacation to explore their relationship only to immediately take up the nannying mantal when Jessie decided she couldn’t work for us any longer.

Seeing Hurst hurt, hurt her.

It also had her come to the realization that that was what his job truly was.

Protecting us at all costs.

Putting us first no matter the consequence.

She couldn’t stomach the idea of being with someone who actively put himself in that position every day, and ultimately ended their fling.

She also came to the conclusion that working for a family this powerful with this level of enemies put her own life at risk, something else she wasn’t a fan of.

Ultimately, it all worked out.

According to Park, she finished her degree, moved to Vlasta, Wisconsin, recently married a professor of macroeconomics at the local university, and is a first-grade teacher at some private academy while we got another incredible member to our unstoppable crew.

Temps is well-educated, well-mannered, and possesses the patience of a saint, which came in extra handy when Wy was little, and the twins were babies.

He’s always willing and ready to throw on whatever color uniform shirt we need him to do that day whether it’s for command, engineer, or med bay.

Wes appreciates his flexibility.

And I appreciate the media not starting rumors that he’s sleeping with my husband.

See.

Everyone. Wins.

“They’re de-boarding,” Lurch announces, putting his phone down in the cup holder, prior to looking over his shoulder at me. “Do you mind if Hill and I switch places tonight? Maz is having her morning sickness in the evening like you did with the twins and Hamilton says that shit’s normal and that she’s fine, but I hate being gone for that shit if I really don’t have to be.”

Having Lurch not only fall in love but knock up Mazarine, the much younger, five foot nothing, mousy, bouncy, pasty, pastry assistant to Lucky – who refuses to ever get married – during her first year with us was to say the very least fucking surprising.

A lot like Hamilton marrying a black, female drummer – who loves to talk to Brae about female musicians – that he met at a speakeasy.

Most of the men in our family have one way or another settled down.

Found love in strange places.

Began their own families, most of which are either on the direct estate property or over in no man’s land like Mom and Clark.

Our impenetrable closeness definitely remains.

And thankfully, since the whole Catalina incident, we haven’t dealt with any high-level threats, allowing the members of our extended family to have lives of their own.

Fuck, even Silas managed to grieve his “loss” and find love with a woman who works for The Frost Luxury Hotel in hospitality.

They’re a match made in concierge heaven.

Plus, who doesn’t love a woman that leaves complimentary “spa sets” – that always include blue mascara – for her behind the front desk of the building she technically owns?

“That’s fine with me, if it’s fine with him,” I state over the continued squabbling of the twins that’s now moved onto which version of The Grinch is the best. “ And Park. ” An eye-roll is mindlessly executed. “ Scottyfuckingforbid , we don’t tell the all mighty Sulu there’s been a small change in the mission plan.”

Lurch’s face twitches a tiny scrunch in confusion. “I don’t know who that is.”

“How have you been a part of this family for this long and still not know who that is?!”

“I’m team Batman.”

“Yeah, well, you look like Bluey in that sweater!” viciously bites Blakely.

“And you look like you’re cosplaying Martha May Whovi nay in that dress!” Brae wittily snipes back.

“Now, you’re team stay in the SUV with the bitchy tweens.” A sassy, mirth-filled smirk is followed by me exiting the vehicle. “Good luck in Gotham.”

Lurch groans so loudly he sounds more like his namesake than normal.

I use the unopened door to the plane as an excuse to take my time getting from where we’re parked over to where they’ll be exiting.

Cold air enthusiastically winds itself around my curvy figure, eager to remind me that while it was wise to completely cover my tits – that are only a little fuller than they were pre-kids – it would’ve been wiser to adequately cover my legs too.

But I fucking hate tights.

And leggings.

And pretty much anything that isn’t a wetsuit yet wants to constrict my thighs like it is.

Besides, these white, knee-high boots, I bought with Nae during our extended lunchbreak Christmas shopping adventure deserve to be immediately shown off.

I earned these fucking things.

People think shopping for kids or teens is hard.

Try shopping for mega rich, nerd husbands who can literally buy anything and everything whenever the mood strikes.

Fighting to find funding in my department at The Power and Bowell Institute to deliver small, holiday bonuses to employees that have been with us for over a year was infinitely easier than working with my best friend to buy her husband – aka my other best friend – a good gift.

It took all of my extended lunch for us to find – separate but acceptable – picks.

Nae managed to discover a Highland based live action role playing company – through a series of backroom bookstore whispers – that specializes in custom creating the experiences from your favorite fictional worlds. The gift from her and her boys is a space battle for our entire family – including her brother, his wife, their kids, and extended members like our security teams.

Definitely a “top-cheddar” gift as Jenni – who is now married to Evie – would say.

And as for my crew?

We leaned more into the Kirk style of shit.

Simply passable.

The girls are thankfully still at an age where making him shit is acceptable, so Brae learned to play a song from the movie Star Trek in the Kelvin timeline while Blake made him a custom trivia game – in which I contributed the extra hard questions.

Wy got him another pair of Star Trek themed swim trunks.

And because Wes and I are married, he just gets credit for my awesomeness of ordering a custom, laser engraved, one of kind, lead free crystal, Next Gen decanter with USS Enterprise (NCC-1701-D) on it and matching “Number One” whiskey glasses.

That particular specialty shop was right across from the shoe store that was having a flash sale.

Puppet Boy was second to last on the list of gifts needed unlike his best friend – my husband – whose custom, handmade Gotham city espresso machine for the penthouse I ordered in July .

The only person left on my list is our son, which is why this bonding trip with his dad doubled as a secret mission to get that info.

And it had to be secretly done since every time I flat out asked all I got was a shoulder shrug.

A. Fucking. Shoulder. Shrug.

What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?!

It’s not like I was asking him something insignificant like what was he in the mood for, for dinner.

This was kind of a big deal.

I sort of needed a real fucking answer.

Worfgivemestrength.

Teens are so fucking hard.

I miss when he was little and new ocean-themed bath toys or juice boxes made me the best mom of all time.

My arrival occurs just as the door opens to unfurl the stairs they need to descend. The instant I see Wy’s freckled covered face, I warmly greet, “ Fins! ”

Rather than speak in return, he merely flashes me the shaka – aka the hang loose sign – alongside a halfhearted smile on his way to the SUV.

Fuck. Me.

This can’t be good.

There’s a small delay before Wes arrives in the doorway, yet when he finally does, there’s no stopping my teeth from sinking into my bottom lip.

StrangeNewWorldshavemercy, how this man only continues to get better with age is a Star Trek mystery they should look into.

His mismatched eyes are still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

His strong, solid, stoic frame is even more cut than the day we officially met due to vigorous exercise with and without his son.

And his smile?

His slightly off kilter, slightly bashful, slightly sweet and sexy and savage, smile?

It’s never lost the art of making my panties wet.

You know.

When I wear them.

Still not a major fan.

Probably never will be.

Wes adjusts the collar to his long, black coat, shifts his wordsearch booklet to his other hand, and defeatedly sighs during his stroll towards me.

Yeah.

This is really not good.

I push a wide mouth grin onto my expression and wind both arms around his torso the instant he’s within reach. “ Mr. Wilcox. ”

An unmistakable, happy groan precedes his mouth from crashing into mine. Our tongues waste no time welcoming one another home nor does his free hand hesitate to wrap itself around the nape of my neck.

Squeeze.

Anchor me to him.

To the fact that I’m really here.

To the fact that in spite of being so many miles apart nothing horrible happened.

Fear and panic are still Wes’s default settings much like stubbornness and control; however, I do my best to be understanding.

Afterall, we have been through an unfortunate amount of hellish things in our relationship.

They just aren’t the only things we’ve been through.

And that’s what I have to keep reminding him about.

Even a decade later.

Our mouths reluctantly separate at which point he huskily murmurs, “ Mrs. Wilcox. ”

There isn’t time to exchange anymore pleasantries courtesy of squeaking in the background, “ Finsssss! ”

“ Twins!!!! ”

Glancing over my shoulders is done at the same moment Wy’s younger sibling’s fling themselves at his legs, curling tightly around him, their tiny faces piercing with pure relief.

That they inherited from their dad.

They’ve seen him make that exact same expression – one he still makes whenever we’re apart for too long – and naturally began mirroring it long before they could talk.

The difference?

They only hug their big brother like that.

Could be because in so many ways he’s their whole world.

He has been since they were born.

He talked to them through the NICU glass.

He sang to them “Baby Shark” the first time he held them.

He taught them the – wrong – words to “Sweet Child O’ Mine” while buckling them in for preschool.

He helped make them snacks, grab the “right” Band-Aids, and always encouraged them to do whatever made them happy even if it meant doing something different from one another because having your own space, your own life, your own stuff was important and getting to share it with those you loved made it even more fun.

Pretty sure that last lesson came from Clark.

He’s never stopped dropping wisdom for the Wilcox dudes.

They still need it.

Him and all his Data meets Alfred like vibes.

Recalling his slightly less excited acknowledgement of my presence prompts me to turn towards my husband. “What’s with my mini?”

“He hates me.”

The lack of hesitation to his answer is met with nods of comprehension. “Of course, he does.”

“ What?! ” Outrage fuses with confusion in his glare. “What do you mean ‘of course, he does’?!”

Our bodies disconnect in tandem with me retorting, “He’s a fourteen-”

“ Thirteen. ”

“ Almost fourteen-year-old dude. ”

“Don’t say dude.”

“Of course he hates you. He has to hate one of us.”

“Why?!”

“Hormones.”

Low, unhappy grumbles linger behind sealed lips. “ Be serious, Bryn. ”

“Oh, I’m a thousand percent being serious, Wes. ”

“He has no valid reason to hate us.”

“Technically, an uncontrollable brain chemistry nightmare going on is a valid reason.” A snarky smirk slides onto my expression as I fold my arms across my chest. “At least according to Temps.”

Another displeased grunt is presented.

“ Anddddd of the two of us, he’s more likely to hate you rather than me because I speak his language.”

“That surfer shit he uses isn’t an actual language.”

“Much like Klingonese, that’s debatable.” Hill appearing at the top of the stairs pushes us to begin moving in the direction of our family. “Did you manage to complete your mission before he made the hatred known?”

Wes’s reluctance to answer isn’t a great sign. “ I did. ”

“And?”

“And he wants to spend to Christmas in Doctenn with Kendall.”

“ Ohmygod, that’s so easy! ”

“Except we’re not going.”

The stern statement stops me dead in my tracks. “ Excuse me? ”

“We’re not going.”

“Because?”

“Because Christmas should be spent at home, and our home is here .”

“Yeah, but our cottage – our vacation home – is there .”

“Christmas should be spent where your family is.”

“Christmas should be spent where your family will be happy. ”

“Christmas should be spent where it’s safe, and the weather is stable , not unpredictable.”

“Christmas-”

“ We’re not going, Brynley. ”

“But-”

“And we’re not discussing it further.”

To my surprise, he storms away, leaving my mouth slightly agape.

Fuck. Me.

Why do I feel like taking The Grinch to see himself in a starring role on the big screen isn’t going to actually have his heart expanding three-sizes this holiday season?