“You wanna move this along?” Merry suggested, though it didn’t come close to sounding like a suggestion.

“It’s my turn at the register,” the man in front of us sniped. “You’ll get your turn.”

“I’ll get it a lot faster, you give it up about tiki torches you aren’t gonna get, seein’ as this guy can’t conjure them from thin air,” Merry returned, shifting his torso to the side only slightly to indicate the line that had formed behind us, which had at least three other customers waiting to check out. “You do that, you can get on your way so the rest of us can get on our way.”

This was a faulty strategy.

He’d called out to the man’s civility.

Since the man had none, that was totally not going to work.

“I hardly need your attitude on a day where I’m looking forward to hosting a luau,” the man retorted.

There it was. I was right.

He didn’t give a shit that he was affecting all our days with his attitude about fucking tiki torches.

“Ditto, turkey,” the woman behind us snapped.

Surprised, I looked back at her to see a blue-haired, sharp-eyed lady with a basket filled with Frozen-themed party plates, cups, like-colored streamers and balloons, and a second basket filled almost to overflowing with bags of fake snow.

“My granddaughter got one year older today and I obviously am not getting any younger, especially waiting in this line,” she declared irately. “I’m not really looking forward to watching Princess Anna’s demonstration of sisterly love for the seven millionth time. But I’d rather do that than expire, waiting at the cash register of a party store, watching a grown man pitch a fit over tiki torches.”

“Yeah,” agreed the lumbersexual guy at the back of the line who had shaggy hair, a long, scruffy beard, was wearing a plaid shirt, and holding an enormous bouquet of pink and silver balloons with some Mylar ones mixed in that said, Sweet Sixteen. “Buy your tiki torches and go.”

The guy in front of us got red in the face, shoved the torches and baskets filled with leis and grass skirts toward the clerk, and snapped, “I’ll get them elsewhere.”

“Good luck with that,” Merry muttered.

The guy shot him a filthy look before he stormed out.

“Next,” the clerk said, dumping the unwanted luau items behind him to clear the register area, doing this with practiced nonchalance, gazing expectantly at Merry and me like all that hadn’t happened.

Then again, he probably had twelve situations like that every day.

This made me glad I was a bartender. People tended to kiss bartender ass to get what they wanted. You didn’t, your ass got ignored and your glass stayed empty.

On these pleasant thoughts, we got our Star Wars stuff. We took it out to Merry’s car. Then Merry headed us toward Marsh to pick up the R2-D2-shaped chocolate cake.

“Just to say, you totally get a blowjob for even going to a party store with me,” I declared as Merry pulled out of the parking lot. “You get another one for gettin’ in that dude’s face. But you didn’t flash your badge and scare the bejeezus out of him, so the month of ‘any time, anywhere head’ is yet to be earned.”

“Baby, can’t flash my badge at a party store to get some guy to stop bein’ an asshole.”

I looked to him. “You did it with the BMW bitch.”

He glanced at me before he looked back at the road. “That was good timing. My badge was already on my belt. Today, I’m off duty.”

I turned to face front again. “I need to take you grocery shopping with me when you’re on duty.”

“They kinda frown on that too, sweetheart, the me-on-duty part being operative, seein’ as they actually want me to work when I’m on duty, not go grocery shopping.”

“Whatever,” I muttered, but I did it grinning because he was funny when he was being rational.

“Gotta say, it’s good to know I got two blowjobs in store, so I probably shouldn’t point this out and give you ideas, but you don’t seem to hesitate goin’ down on me, even if I haven’t done something to earn your mouth.”

“Good point,” I kept muttering (and grinning).

“Though, the promise, brown eyes? Sweet.” Now Merry was muttering.

“Glad you think so.”

He drove.

I sat in his truck, grinning.

“Cher?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re an overachiever too.”

I felt my chest depress.

I turned my eyes to him.

He was also grinning.

“Fuck,” I groused.

“What?” he asked.

“Making you happy makes me even happier.”

“You say that like it’s bad.”

“It is.”

He glanced again at me then back at the road, his brows drawn, his face dark. “How is that bad?”

“Because it means you’re always one-upping me on the happy. I can’t make you happy without you making me happier because I’m making you happy. It’s a vicious cycle where you’re always on top. And that’s bad.”

“I know some times when you’re on top that make me a fuckuva lot happier than you are.”

His words and the memories they invoked gave me a nice shiver.

And experiencing that, I shared, “I’m not sure that’s true.”

“Trust me, baby. When you ride me, I watch you come, but I feel what you give to me.”

“I feel what you give to me too.”

“You come harder on your back. That’s when I’m givin’ it to you. When you’re on top, you’re givin’ it to me.”

This was definitely true.

“So there are times when you’re on top with the happy in more ways than one,” he finished.

I faced forward again, mumbling, “That makes me feel better.”

Merry reached out and nabbed my hand, holding it.

And more happy.

“Glad I could be of service,” he murmured.

“Stop being perfect,” I ordered.

He chuckled.

“And awesome,” I went on.

He kept chucking.

“And funny, smart, sweet, and hot,” I finished.

His hand squeezed mine hard as he burst out laughing.

And there it was.

I was on top.

* * * * *

“Is there something I can do, Cher?”

A bunch of people were stuffed in my kitchen with me, one of them being Rocky, who’d just asked that question.

It was time for cake.

But it was also a birthday party with fifteen kids and twice that many adults paying homage to my boy for being awesome (and turning eleven), so there was always something to do.

“Yeah, babe. Can you grab the ice cream?” I asked, unearthing R2-D2 from his flat, white box.

“Absolutely,” she murmured, pushing her way to the fridge.

I felt a hand warm on the small of my back as I saw another hand offering me two boxes of candles, one box of blue, one black.

“Need a light?” Merry’s voice rumbled into my ear.

I twisted to look up to him. “Yeah, gorgeous. And can you grab the plates and forks and get everyone in the living room?”

His hand slid down to the top of my ass, fingers curved around my hip, and gave a squeeze. “You got it.”

He dropped the candles on the counter by the cake, dug in his jeans pocket, pulled out a lighter, and tossed that on the counter too. Then he bent and kissed my neck briefly before he took off.

“Everyone in the living room,” he announced as he went. “Time for cake.”

“My big brother…domesticated,” Rocky remarked.

I looked to her to see she had a tub of ice cream in her hand and her eyes aimed where Merry was herding people out of the kitchen.

She turned to me and her smile was big.

“Looks good on him,” she declared.

“Your brother always looks good,” I replied.

Her big grin got bigger.

I dipped my head to her middle. “Congrats, by the way. Merry told me.”

She balanced the tub of ice cream in one hand in order to put her other to her belly. “Thanks.”

I turned to the cake and snatched up the candles.

Rocky got close.

“You want some?” she asked.

“Want some what?” I asked back, shoving candles in the cake and feeling weird doing it. R2-D2 was also my favorite Star Wars character and shoving candles in his middle (even if that middle was pure frosting) felt like stabbing my favorite teddy bear.