“Hell yeah!” Fox cheers through a mouthful of crust.
“Gotta agree with that.” Pan, who recaptured the settee, is now lying on it longways with his head on one armrest and feet on the other. “Sorry to play favorites, but smart money’s on my man Fox.”
“Well, yeah,” Kit says—cross-legged, by the coffee table, “because he could justsit on meand do that thing where he dangles drool right over my face. That was always his go-to move as a kid,” he adds to Wendy next to him.
“Gross.” She wrinkles her nose. “Hey!” She straightens suddenly, glaring at Fox in the window seat. “Pizza isn’t good for dogs.”
Fox draws back from where he was attempting to feed Nana a pizza crust. “Sorry.”
“Pizza isn’t even good for people,” I point out, swallowing my last bite of crust. Wendy frowns.
“What do you mean?”
“Yeah,” Pan puts in, “whatdoyou mean?” He gestures with the stump of his last slice. “This baby can hold, like, the whole damn food pyramid on it. How’s it bad for you?”
“Because it…”
Pan’s gaze catches mine, but somehow I don’t think he’s on the same wavelength I am.
Because it makes you fat, is what I was going to say. Because it’s full of carbs and grease and empty calories.
But I’m not about to say that. Not in front of them. And, I realize, not in front of Wendy.
“Never mind,” I say.
I look at Pan, expecting him to have some kind of pushback or joke to make. Instead, he just cocks his head and does a littlerefill?gesture with his empty hand. I nod and get to my feet, and Pan beams and presses his hands to his chest for a little bow of thanks, which I return by rolling my eyes as I turn for the kitchen again?—
—and walk right into Blue.
Jesus.A spike of surprise jets down my spine. He really knows how toloom.
“You just got up.”
“Well, I’m getting up again,” I say, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. “Pan needs a beer.”
“And that’s your problem?”
I expel air out of my nose. “Just move.”
To my surprise, he does, stepping aside so smoothly I almost trip on my feet to pass him, and I glower at every thump of his feet up the stairs to the loft.
Fine,I think.Go sulk. Or go jerk off on camera. Whatever it is that you do.
Without meaning to, an image from last night—was it just last night?—flashes into my mind.
Get a grip, dude.
I fling the fridge door open and stick my whole head inside. Breathe in the chilly, humid air, like my brain needs a hard reset.
And maybe it does.
When I return, beer in hand, everyone is staring at me.
“What?” I say, alarmed, like I missed something important, because I’m getting the sense that I did.
“Nothing,” Pan says, grinning wickedly and accepting the can when I offer it. “I see what you’re saying, kid. It’s a tough call.”
“I’m sticking with Kit,” Fox says. Arms folded and a resolute nod, like some kind of brotherly loyalty.
