Page 57 of Blame it on the Bet
“Now, Dad, you know I was an angelic child,” Win calls from the hallway as he returns with a Michelob for me. “Well, angelic by Jackson standards, anyway,” he groans, handing me the bottle.
“Thanks. Speaking of the little guy, where is he?”
“He’s hanging with Mommy in the kitchen,” Hennessy replies. “But he’s been asking for you, Brybry. Hey, Jackson,” she hollers toward the kitchen, “Brybry’s here.”
“Gee, thanks.” I chuckle when I hear a piercing squeal of delight.
“Brybry!”
Tiny footsteps can be heard as he makes his way toward us.
“Brybry!”
“In here, buddy,” his father answers and squats down to his level when the little boy comes careening into the den. He flings himself into his father’s outstretched arms, and Win plants several loud, sloppy kisses on the boy’s face.
Jackson chortles and squeals in response, then wraps his arms around Win’s neck.
I keep hearing what a jerk this guy is, but it’s clear he loves his son. I’m wondering if maybe the O’Halloran sisters’ view of their brother-in-law has to do with his treatment of Jameson rather than his overall demeanor. Maybe I’ll have a better idea by the time I leave here today.
“Brybry!”
Jackson points in my direction and squirms to get out of his father’s grasp.
“Do you mind?” Win asks.
“Not at all. Come over here, big guy.” I hold out my hands as an invitation, and he makes the leap from Win to me. “Wow, this kid’s solid,” I marvel once I’ve got him.
“Oh yeah,” Big Win agrees. “Another trait his father had, too.”
“Not to mention his grandpa,” Win teases, patting his father’s paunch.
The older man smiles and shrugs.
“What can I say? Your mother was an excellent cook, son.”
“That she was,” Win agrees. “Speaking of which, my wife has asked us to make our way to the dining room. Come here, Jax. Let daddy put you in your high chair?—”
“No, daddy, no! Brybry!” Win looks at me.
“Do you mind? It’s really simple. Just help him into it and fasten the little seat belt that’s attached.”
“All good,” I agree and follow Hennessy to a large room with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on a backyard that could pass for a national park.
The dining table is a long farmhouse table with distressed wood planks atop chunky white legs. Large, rustic ladder-back chairs flank each side, and matching Windsor chairs sit at either end. I locate the high chair and secure Jackson, then make a move to sit on the other side of the table. But His Majesty isn’t having it.
“Nooooooo! Brybry! Nooooooo. Staaaaaaaay!”
“I think he wants you to stay,” Hennessy notes as she takes the seat next to the one the screecher wants me to occupy.
“That’s enough, Jackson,” his father warns him as he sets a large platter of ham in the center of the table.
The baby grins at his father and bats his eyelashes. Funny, I thought that only worked in romantic situations, but even I find myself enchanted by the huge green eyes fringed with long red lashes.
“No worries,” I assure Win. “As long as he doesn’t call me a…you know…then I think we’re in good shape.”
Win snorts.
“The day’s still young, Bryan. The day’s still young…”
