Page 91 of Pistols & Peonies

It’s a little disarming.

The second they disappear around the corner, I plant my ass back on the barstool and pick up my phone, checking for notifications. There’s already a message from Char waiting for me.

Charlotte

So? Is the brother hot? Is he scary? Is he judging you??

I huff a quiet laugh.

I owe her this play-by-play after ditching her at Eclipse last night. She saw me leave with Kane, so it’s not like she thought I’d been abducted, but still.

I type back quickly.

Hot. Annoyingly charming. Likes hassling Kane even more than I do. 10/10 entertainment so far.

She responds immediately with three fire emojis and a string of exclamation points.

I set my phone down with a chuckle and reach for my whiskey, draining what’s left in one steady swallow. As I lower my glass, I hear the faint hum of voices drifting down the hall from Kane’s office. I pour myself another whiskey, trying not to speculate as to what they’re talking about while I slowly sip, but only five minutes pass before curiosity wins.

Sliding off the stool, I tiptoe out of the kitchen and down the hall toward Kane’s office, the alcohol warming my bloodstream just enough to make this feel like a good idea. The office door is mostly closed, just a sliver of light spilling into the hallway. I stop a few feet away and hold my breath, straining to hear.

Their voices are a low, steady rumble, tension threaded through the sound. At first, I can’t make out more than a word here and there– risk, losses, regrouping. Then Whit’s voice slices cleanly through the murmur.

“I’m sick of waiting around for something to happen. Change requires action.”

My pulse kicks up.

Kane answers, but his voice is lower, harder to decipher. Something about keeping eyes open, being patient…

I inch closer, bracing a hand against the wall for balance. The floorboard under my left foot lets out a tiny, traitorous squeak, and the conversation cuts off instantly. Silence slams down, my breath catching in my throat.

The office door swings open a second later, Kane’s broad frame swallowing the light behind him.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice edged with suspicion.

“Nothing,” I blurt, far too quickly. “I just…” I wave a hand toward the kitchen. “The lasagna’s getting pretty crisp. We should probably take it out before it becomes inedible.”

The excuse sounds flimsy even to me.

He studies me for a long, heavy moment, like he’s measuring how much I heard. Then he jerks a nod, stepping aside to let Whit through. Whit’s expression is more amused than anything, and he’s quick with a smile when our eyes meet.

“Good thing I like it crispy,” he says lightly, flashing that dimple and giving me a wink.

Kane closes the office door behind him, locking it with a soft, deliberate click. “Let’s eat,” he says, placing a firm hand at the small of my back and steering me toward the kitchen.

The three of us re-enter like nothing happened. Kane heads straight for the oven, while Whit moves to my side, leaning in and dropping his voice low.

“Whatever you’ve been doing to him, it’s working.”

I whirl on him, unsure whether I should be offended. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, grabbing the whiskey from the counter and topping off his glass. “I’m just saying, keep it up,” he murmurs. “He needs something good in his life.”

I roll my eyes, smirking despite myself.

Whit refills my glass with a quick wink while Kane plates up the lasagna with military precision. Then we each grab a plate, taking our seats at the dining table in the next room. There’s no salad, no bread, no stuffy formality about this meal– just scorched cheese and three glasses of whiskey.

It’s kind of perfect, actually.