I rub the back of my neck. “There was, uh… traffic.”
“You think I can’t spot that white lie a mileaway? Do better, Rourke,” she says sassily. She turns to Jhene and rushes forward to give her an embrace.
Jhene goes rigid in her arms, thrown off by the warm greeting.
“Jhene, so glad you made it out okay! But sorry you’ve got stuck with the boneman,” she says, shooting me a good-natured smirk. She takes Jhene’s hand. “Come join us. My cousin Monique and I are having lunch on the terrace. I want to hear everything that’s been going on with you.”
Chantal starts tugging her away. Jhene throws a look at me from over her shoulder—wide-eyed behind her glasses and startled, she’s already overwhelmed. She’s begging to be rescued.
I merely give an encouraging nod. “Go on. She doesn’t bite. I’ll catch up with you later.”
Lochlan waits for them to disappear down the front hall, raising his right brow. “So that’s her. The stray I’ve heard so much about.”
“She’s no stray,” I say. “Not anymore. She’s ours now.”
FOURTEEN
Jhene
“So you’rethe one who’s been keeping Killian on his toes.”
Chantal flashes me a warm smile as I settle into the wrought-iron chair across from her on the terrace. The afternoon sun is bright overhead, bathing everything in a golden hue that feels surreal. Which isn’t ideal for someone already a little overwhelmed.
“Um…” I mumble. “I don’t know about that. He’s the one keeping me on mine.”
The woman beside Chantal lets out a snort. She has the same mahogany complexion Chantal has, except her hair is in sisterlocs piled at the top of her head, vaguely resembling the shape of a pineapple. She’s in a pastel-yellow swing dress that looks both vintage and chic and makes me feel severely underdressed.
“I didn’t realize we had company,” she says plainly, in a matter-of-fact tone I’d normally appreciate if I weren’t overstimulated.
Chantal laughs off the question. “Neek, this is Jhene. My friend from the cages.”
“Making friends in cages—also something I didn’t realize was a thing.”
“Neither did I,” I admit.
“You know what I mean. Don’t be a smartass,” Chantal says, swatting at her cousin’s arm.
“That makes two of us,” I mutter under my breath.
Both women glance at me with raised brows. Heat creeps up my neck.
“Oh, um… smartass is one of Killian’s favorite nicknames for me. That and girl. Oh, and stray. Sometimes pain in the ass when he’s feeling extra spicy.”
Chantal laughs, the bright and melodic sound matching the sunny summer afternoon. “Mine calls me brat. Among other things.”
“Oh,” I say, shaking my head. “No… no… we’re not… it’s not like that. Killian and I aren’t... We’re just...”
I trail off, more heat flaming my face as I fumble for words that refuse to come.
The truth is, I don’t knowwhatKillian and I are.
After everything that’s happened between us—the movie dates, the kisses and touches and falling asleep in his arms—I have no idea how to define it.
One thing’s for sure. I’m definitely not about to try in front of two women I barely know. Thankfully, I’m saved from further embarrassment by the terrace doors banging open.
A stern-faced older woman in an apron marches toward us carrying a tray laden with what looks like some kind of caramel-colored cake. Her blondish gray hair is pulled back in a sleek bun; the expression she wears suggesting she’s perpetually annoyed.
I recognize her from my last visit to Callahan House—Oona, otherwise known as the Callahan’s keeper of the house.
