“I spearheaded this floor. It’s completely open except for the bathroom. We wanted a space to read, watch movies, workout, and of course, enjoy a nightcap,” she smiled as the men gravitated toward the bar.
“The tea, smoothie, and protein shake bar is in the middle,” Raven pointed toward the juicer and blenders, fresh bowls of fruit and vegetables. “The fridge and sink are obviously on the left, while the rest, of course, is the good stuff,” indicating the fully stocked bar. She laughed as she glanced at Bran, catching his smile.
“There seems to be a theme here,” Bran replied. “Irish and American whiskey, with plenty of Scottish whisky to even things out.”
“Damn,” Patrick said. “Consider me impressed.”
River’s infectious smile bloomed, “You see, we got our mother’s features and hair from her Creek ancestry. Her mother was Creek as Raven explained earlier, and even though our father’s family carries Native American blood, they’re as Irish as can be. We got our vampire skin from him. And our love of whiskey, of course!”
Hugh, Raven noticed, couldn’t stop a small smile from making an appearance.
Bran asked, “Do your folks live in Eufaula? Is that why you settled here?”
Bran realizedhe’d made a mistake as soon as the words left his mouth. All three women just... stopped. He, Pat, and Dad winced in the sudden silence. The sisters shifted closer to one another. Obviously, for comfort. Shit.
“I’m sorry,” Bran started, “I shouldn’t have asked such a personal question.”
Raven shook her head slightly as though sloughing off a thought or memory.
“No, no. Of course, it’s okay, and our parents were amazing people who should be remembered.”
She would have gone on, but Rowan seemed to realize she didn’t want to continue.
“They both were killed in a car accident right after finals our sophomore year at OU.” Waving toward the bar area, Yellow/Rowan? explained, “Rave worked ages on the memory wall.”
Bran, Dad, and Patrick moved closer to see the pictures, postcards, and mementos that created the backsplash. He saw pictures of the Byrnes when they were little girls bouncing around who he assumed were their parents. Grins as beautiful then as now. Some pictures at a cottage in, he presumed, an Irish countryside.
Rowan tried to save the men from feeling awkward and chose to change the subject while imbuing her words with lightheartedness.
“I designed our living quarters on the third floor if anyone still feels like trekking up another set of stairs...” pointing halfheartedly toward them.
Surprising everyone in the group, including himself, Bran imagined, Hugh said, “We might as well see the rest.”
5
Dad was not happy. “Patrick, what were you thinking to not only hire Triskelion before we’d even left their office without discussing it with your brother and me first? Then you invite them to our home with an invitation to stay the night Saturday!”
It took the thirty-five-minute drive for him to ask. They’d just turned down the driveway to their compound and were waiting for the electric gate to slide open when he turned in his seat to face his youngest son.
“I...” Patrick began before Dad cut him off.
“I’ll tell you what you were thinking, or rather what you were thinking with, boy, and it wasn’t your head,” he fumed. “At least not the head atop your damn shoulders.”
This last came out in a low growl that, once upon a time, would have had Bran and Pat quaking in their shoes.
Bran decided to throw his brother a life preserver. It was strange, though, that their dad was so fired up about it. He knew his father well enough to realize he would have chosen the Byrne sisters. There were simply too many advantages with their Irish heritage and their time living in Ireland to blow them off. Notto mention they were extraordinarily talented. Their Eufaula property was proof of that. Something else must be bothering the old man.
“Dad, leave off Pat, for fuck’s sake. Patrick has never been foolish, and you know it. We were going to hire them. If they could come back from the fiasco we walked in on this morning, their talents probably have no equal.” Dad didn’t say anything else. A promising sign. Crisis averted.
But then Patrick chose to bring up the weekend. Jesus. Moron.
“Exactly.” Justification riding his words. “Plus, I imagine you wouldn’t mind staring at Raven with your mouth hanging open again, Bran,” Patrick tacked on, smiling.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong. “Last time I try to help you out dickhead,” Bran replied without heat.
“And,” Patrick kept on his roll, “James is already going to be here. It’ll save time all the way ’round.”
Dad’s mouth was starting to thin again. Perfect... annnnd... Pat wasn’t done.
