“Marriage is right for some people. People like you who can’t stop burning casseroles and need a nice woman to force you to stop dressing like a 1980s sitcom star.”
Headlights next door skimmed the fence that divided my backyard from Sloane’s. I got to my feet and went to the window on the other wall that overlooked the front of her house. It looked as though Sloane was getting company whether she wanted it or not.
Emry chuckled. “Leave my cardigans out of this. Are we still on for dinner next week? I think I’ve finally figured out an opening that will tame your infuriating knight.”
Emry and I had graduated from therapy sessions to a friendship that required dinner and chess matches every two weeks. He was good. But I was always better.
“I doubt that. But I’ll be there. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
“No rest for the wicked, eh?”
None.
“Goodbye, Emry.”
“Good night, Lucian.”
I immediately pushed the conversation out of my head and had opened another report when the doorbell rang.
“Why won’t people leave me the fuck alone?” I muttered as I opened my security app and found both Morgan brothers, shoulders hunched against the cold, at my front door.
On a growl, I slammed my laptop shut.
“What?” I demanded when I opened the door a minute later.
They tromped in, stomping snow from their boots on the entryway tile. I would clean up the puddles later, I told myself. Waylon, Knox’s basset hound, marched inside, headbutted me in the knees, then trotted into the living room.
Knox held up a six-pack of beer. Nash hefted a bottle of bourbon and a bag of chips. The furry white head of his dog, Piper, poked out above the zipper of his coat.
“Girls are next door,” Knox said as if that explained everything and headed for the kitchen. “Told you he’d still be in a suit,” he called out to his brother.
I ran a hand down my tie, noting that they’d both changed into the standard Knockemout winter uniform of jeans, thermal, and flannel.
“Figured we’d stick around to keep an eye on them to prevent another last time,” Nash said, putting Piper down on the floor and following his brother. The dog was wearing a red sweater with white snowflakes. She cast an anxious look at me and then trotted down the hall after Nash.
I closed the door and resisted the urge to knock my head against it. I didn’t want company. And I didn’t want to be drawn into whatever drunken escapades Sloane and her friends got themselves into. “Last time” had involved Naomi and Sloane getting heroically drunk and “helping” Lina catch a bail jumper with their wits. Well, with Naomi’s wits and Sloane’s spectacular tits.
I was still furious I’d missed that.
“I have work to do,” I said.
“Then we’ll just watch a movie with explosions quietly while you run your evil empire,” Nash said cheerfully.
They helped themselves to paper towels and glasses, then wandered into the living room, more comfortable here than I had ever been.
The room was staged with a family in mind. There was a deep sectional couch and an upholstered ottoman facing a large flat-screen TV. The white bookshelves that lined one wall had plenty of space for books, games, and photos.
There hadn’t been any family photos here when I was growing up. At least none past my midteens when everything had gone to hell.
“Your security cameras get any good angles on Sloane’s place?” Knox asked.
“I don’t know,” I hedged. “Why?”
“Wouldn’t put it past them to sneak out to build an army of snowmen in the middle of the highway,” Nash explained.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I headed back upstairs and grabbed my laptop, but not before peering out the window into the gloomy winter night. Sloane’s bedroom lights were off. I’d spent too many nights wondering why she’d kept the room she’d grown up in instead of moving into her parents’ room. I hated how many questions I had about the woman I didn’t want to care about.
On a testy sigh, I cued up the security feed that I staunchly refused to open. The one that angled toward Sloane’s front door and driveway. It was a point of pride that I never looked at it, even when I felt homesick for a home that had never been mine.
Hearing the brotherly banter in the living room, I reluctantly changed into sweats and a T-shirt, then shoved my feet into the sherpa-lined house slippers Karen had given me two Christmases ago. I clomped back downstairs where I found my friends and their dogs lounging comfortably on the sectional.
“He’s human,” Nash observed when I walked in.
“Only on the outside,” I assured him.
He had taken two bullets this summer when his name had landed on that list of obstacles for Anthony Hugo’s crime syndicate in the DC area. After a few hairy months, Nash had managed to pull himself out of a downward spiral with the help of the stunning, monogamy-averse Lina.
While he’d convinced her to let him put a ring on her finger, I was still attempting to convince her to work full-time for me. She was smart, devious, and better at managing people than she gave herself credit for. I’d win eventually. I always did.
I dropped down on the couch and opened the laptop to the camera footage. “Here,” I said, angling it toward the brothers.
“Perfect,” Knox said.
“What are we watching?” I asked.
“Narrowed it down to Shawshank or Boondock Saints. Your choice,” Nash said.
“Boondock,” I answered automatically.
Knox cued it up while Nash poured the bourbon. He distributed the glasses and held his aloft. “To Simon. The man all men should aspire to be.”
“To Simon,” I echoed, keenly aware of a fresh stab of grief.
“Think Sloane will be okay?” Nash asked.
I crossed my arms and pretended I didn’t get that nagging little rush whenever someone mentioned her name in my presence.
Knox shook his head. “It’s a tough loss. She held up today after Luce here force-fed her a burrito.”
Nash’s eyebrows rose as he cut a look in my direction.
“Not a euphemism. It was a literal burrito,” I explained.
“Sloane would break his euphemistic burrito in half,” Knox predicted with a smirk. It disappeared quickly. “Naomi thinks she’s gonna have a rough time and try to hide it.”
“And Naomi is usually right,” Nash pointed out.
“Let me know if there’s anything she needs,” I said, automatically distancing myself from the responsibility of looking after her.
Knox smirked. “Like a burrito?”
I glared at him. “Like moral or financial support that can be provided from a distance. My burrito wants nothing to do with Sloane Walton.”
“Yeah. Keep telling your burrito that,” Nash said, picking up his phone. He winced. “Great. Lina just texted. The girls are making margaritas.”
Knox put down his bourbon. “Fuck.”
3
Margarita Talk
Sloane
I
stomped through the snow, cutting across Lucian’s driveway and then my own. As always, conversations with the infuriating man left me eternally irritated. Over the years, we’d done whatever necessary to avoid each other. Yet today of all days, I’d ended up alone with the man not once, but twice. It was amazing we’d both survived.