At the same time, their father snatched the gifted sweets right back. “After dinner.”
“Speaking of…” I took a few steps with my nose in the air. Once Logan and Cora were behind me, I handed off the stocked bag to them while I kept my brother distracted. “Who had dinner duty?”
“Don’t start with me,” Turner grumbled.
“It’s not my fault you can only cook spaghetti or chili. Is it a firefighter thing?”
“Keep it up, and I’m going to grab the measuring tape so we can see how much taller Logan is.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea,” my nephew said, spraying crumbs from his full mouth.
Turner’s lip curled in disgust before his eyes narrowed. “Where’d they get those cookies?”
“Huh. Weird. Must be the elves,” I muttered. “Anywho, which is it? Spaghetti or chili?”
“Neither.”
“Both,” Dad corrected, his own hands filled with pilfered lemon cookies. The powdered sugar in his gray beard showed he’d already eaten at least one. “Chili mac.”
“Same meal, different fonts,” I sighed.
“Go wash up,” Turner told his kids, confiscating the cookies before they trudged away.
Goose didn’t follow after. He kept his stoic doggy gaze locked on his target.
The discarded shopping bag.
“So what’s up with your face?” my brother asked when the coast was clear.
“What’s up with yours?” I shot back. “Fall from the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down?”
“Luna Oscar,” my dad warned, like he was about to ground me. I nearly moved toward my childhood bedroom from muscle memory alone.
I’d spent alotof time grounded.
I pretended to check a watch I wasn’t wearing. “Isn’t it time to eat?”
“We’ve been waiting on you,” Turner said. “Why did you message to be sure everyone would be here if you were going to be late?”
“It’s an hour drive. And I had to stop for—I mean, bake those cookies.” It wasn’t a lie. Well, the baking part was a joke, but Ihad stopped. I’d also driven back roads with a lot of misdirection in case anyone was trying to follow me.
It would suck to blow my cover before it started.
It would suck far worse to bring danger to my family’s doorstep.
I came from a long line of law enforcement officers. Uncles. Cousins. Grandfathers on both sides. My dad was a retired lieutenant. My oldest brother, Grayson, was a fancy-pants FBI agent in Hawaii—the lucky jerk. Silas was a detective in Worcester. Maverick also worked there as a K9 officer, though I stood by the fact that Goose did all the work.
Turner, in typical middle-child fashion, had to be different by being a firefighter.
But even with all their experience and first-hand knowledge, I knew better than to tell them about the near miss right before announcing I would be undercover. They would spend the whole time worried.
So I reverted to jokes. “Stripper heel. Such is life for a member ofThe Mod Squad.”
Turner must’ve channeled Logan’s teenage dramatics because he gave an exaggerated eye roll before leaving the room.
Picking up the shopping bag, I paused to look inside as I waited for my dad to stand without making it obvious I was hovering. My body tensed when he stumbled a bit, but he found his footing without needing the assist.
“I know what you’re doing,” he grumbled, more winded from the effort than he should’ve been.
