“Meat.”
“Fletcher.”
“Private tours.”
“Mason.”
“Hisnanny.”
The table loses it.
Even Remi turns her face into Zela’s soft curls, her shoulders trembling as she presses a kiss to the baby’s head. Max, thrilled by the attention and understanding absolutely none of it, starts clicking his fingers like tongs and chanting, “hot meat, hot meat, hot meat,” until Luke reaches over and calmly hands him a piece of cornbread.
“Eat that, buddy,” Luke says. “For the love of God.”
Elle studies Evan. “Daddy, are you giving Penny a private tour because you’re polite?”
“Yes,” Evan says, at the same time Mason says, “No.”
Evan turns slowly, and Mason takes one careful step back. “I meant no, as in yes.”
“That's not how words work,” Colt tells him.
“Nothing works anymore. The children have the room.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, loose from somewhere low in my ribs, and the sound feels too bright to belong to me. Evan glances over at me, and his expression shifts just enough to cause a reckless feeling to prickle my skin.
Mason notices immediately, because apparently, vigilance is his greatest burden.
“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “Are you two done eye fu—err, communicating, or should we give you a minute to…finish?”
“Subtle as a brick,” Luke mutters.
“What does eye communicating mean?” Elle asks.
“It means your father is bad at hiding things,” Remi says calmly.
Evan ignores them completely as he walks over and offers me his hand.
“C’mon,” he says. “I’ll show you around before they get worse.”
“Little late for that,” Remi says dryly.
I take Evan’s hand to stand, then let go to brush my hands on my jeans, distracting myself from the rough warmth of his palms.
“Back in a minute,” I say, turning to glance back at the table and catching Remi’s eyes.
She smiles at me in a way that suggests she knows exactly what this is and is enjoying it far too much.
The noise drops a notch as we step further into the apparatus bay. The engine sits gleaming, red paint catching the late afternoon light.
“This is ours,” Evan says, resting his hand against the side panel. “Engine One.”
His voice changes when he talks about this place. It settles and slows, like he’s talking about an old friend or something he loves.
“You definitely have a tour voice,” I say.
He glances at me. “I do not.”
