2
“Slow down,babygirl,” Marcus laughingly admonished his daughter. “The pizza ain’t going nowhere.”
Perched on his lap, Milan giggled and clapped her dimpled little hands together. She was dressed all in pink—pink sweater, pink leggings, tiny pink Timbs. Her thick black hair was pulled into two big afro puffs, one over each ear and tied with pink ribbons.
Marcus had cut up a slice of pizza for her, which she was quickly devouring. When she went to grab another piece, he moved the plate out of reach. “Uh-uh. Swallow what’s in your mouth first.”
The little girl poked her bottom lip out, drawing a hearty rumble of laughter from Michael, Manning and Quentin.
“Baby girl don’t mess around with her food,” Manning joked.
“Just like Junior.” Quentin grinned at his toddler son, who sat beside him in a high chair shoveling bites of pizza into his mouth. “I keep telling y’all these two are soul mates.”
Junior flashed a toothy grin at everyone, setting off another round of laughter at the table.
They were having lunch at a popular pizzeria close to Legoland, where the kids had spent several hours building racecars and castles, romping through miniature towns and getting on every ride they could—some more than once.
When they arrived at the restaurant, the waitstaff had pushed three tables together and brought out four high chairs to accommodate their large party. The older children sat at one end chattering animatedly about the day’s adventures at Legoland. Matthew, as usual, was the loudest. A close second was eight-year-old Micah, Manning’s eldest son. When the two boys started bickering over something or other, their fathers had to intervene, telling them to knock it off.
As the combatants glared sullenly at each other, Michael grinned at Manning. “Do those two remind you of anyone?”
Manning laughed. “We weren’tthatbad, were we?”
Marcus snorted. “Are you kidding? Y’all were worse.”
“Muchworse,” Quentin agreed, laughing. “Y’all were always arguing and trying to one-up each other.”
“I don’t know why,” Michael drawled. “I was older, smarter, handsomer and a much better athlete. There was no competition. Then or now.”
Manning smirked and started to flip him the bird before he remembered there were young children around. “Let’s see if you can back up all that trash talking when I get you on the court next weekend.”
Michael snort-laughed. “C’mon, son. You don’t want none of this.”
“Ooh!” the boys hollered, relishing the prospect of a showdown between the two grownups.
Marcus grinned, wagging his head at Michael and Manning. “Way to set an example for the young’uns.”
Everyone laughed.
Milan gulped down the rest of her apple juice, then set her sippy cup on the table and wriggled her fingers at the empty plate. “More pizza, Daddy.”
“More pizza, what?” Marcus prompted.
She looked back at him with those wide dark eyes that were just like Samara’s. “Pleeease?”
Damn if Marcus didn’t melt. “Coming right up,” he acquiesced.
This drew knowing laughter from Michael, Manning and Quentin. They all had daughters. And they were all, without exception, wrapped around their little girls’ fingers.
As soon as she finished eating, six-year-old Malia climbed into Manning’s lap and laid her head contentedly on his shoulder. Four-year-old Savannah also found her way to Michael’s lap.
When Quentin’s infant daughter began dozing off in her high chair, he plucked her out and cuddled her against his broad chest. Although Alexandra Reddick had inherited her father’s wavy hair, hazel eyes and golden complexion, her features were unmistakably her mother’s. She looked so much like Lexi that Quentin affectionately called her “Lil Lex.”
As Milan happily wolfed down more pizza, Marcus smiled across the table at Michael Junior. His adorable nephew sat in a high chair playing with Lego bricks, the corners of his mouth smeared with pizza sauce.
“MJ had a blast building that rocket at Legoland,” Marcus said to his brother. “Maybe he’s gonna be an engineer like you were before you became a hotshot chef.”
Michael grinned, watching his son with quiet pride. “Maybe so.”
