Aspen
Code tequila.
Briar
Oh shit, we haven’t had one of those since Denver brought home fainting goats without asking.
Harlowe
Reminder, murder is a felony in all 50 states.
Briar
The goats can stay. The husband . . . jury is still out.
Sloane
Is everything okay?
Aspen
Unlike Briar, I’ve got no immediate plans to subtract from the population.
Briar
I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.
Briar
That’s called plausible deniability.
Harlowe
Like you could live without Denver.
Tessa
Ladies! Stay on track. Denver and Briar’s bizarre foreplay can wait.
Sloane
Tell us what you need.
Aspen
Margaritas. My house.
Harlowe
I’ll bring the tequila.
I’ve picked up and set down my book a dozen times in the last thirty minutes when a single knock is followed by a flurry of activity. The girls spill into my kitchen, kicking off shoes and dropping purses at their feet.
“The tequila has arrived.” Briar makes the sign of the cross as her gaze lands on Emmett, bent over the Jeep. “Father, son, and holy hell that man is built. I can see why you need this. There is soft-core porn that started with less sexual tension.”
Sometime since I banished myself from the window, Emmett lost his shirt. Now, clad in only a pair of blue jeans that look like they were made for him, with grease smudged across his glistening skin, it’s a good thing I force myself away from temptation and even better that I called in backup.
Sloane, looking moderately more sympathetic than Briar, makes her way deeper into the kitchen, setting a bag of limes on the counter. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess he’s the reason for the code tequila?”
