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“I’ll get these back to the yard, D-boss,” Leon says, turning another cheeky smile my way, bowing. “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Black.”
“You too, Leon,” I say, watching him, full of beans, hop back into the truck and pull away.
Danny starts walking us into the mansion, Tank on our heels. “What have you been doing this morning?”
“What have you been doing?” I counter, holding his hand where it dangles over my shoulder.
“You know what I’ve been doing.” He pulls his glasses off and looks down at me with high, warning brows. “Now answer my question.”
I pout. “Beau’s been giving me a master class in shooting.”
“Oh?”
“I’m still quite shit.”
He laughs, and it’s my favorite laugh from him. Pure. Real. We enter the kitchen and find Daniel with his sleeves up, ready to plunge his hands into a bowl of ground beef. “Hey, Mister,” he chirps, his eyes lighting up when he sees Danny.
“Hey, kid.” Danny pulls a stool out and pushes me onto it, going to the fridge and fetching a bottle of water. He ruffles Daniel’s hair as he passes and drops a kiss onto Esther’s cheek as she chops onions. “What did you think of the skis?” Danny settles on a stool opposite my boy, holding my thigh with one hand and drinking his water with the other.
“It’s so sick, man.” Daniel’s hands plunge into the meat and start mixing in the onions as Esther scrapes them into the bowl off the chopping board. “Thanks, Mister.”
“Welcome. Maiden voyage soon?”
“When?” he asks, as keen as I knew he’d be. “Now?”
Danny laughs, while I break out in a sweat. Daniel at the boatyard? “Maybe next week,” I say, appeasing him, feeling Danny’s amused stare rooted on my profile. I’m glad he’s finding this funny. “Danny’s busy.” Plotting death.
I peek at Esther. She’s smiling at her onions. This was a terrible idea. Why am I the only person around here who seems to realize that? And what the hell did Hilary and Derek think about my mother-in-law showing up to collect Daniel? They must have been full of questions. Unless . . .
I look at Danny next to me, my eyes narrowing. He looks out the corner of his eye as he slugs back more water. Obviously gun smuggling and murder is thirsty work. “What?” he asks.
“You didn’t kidnap him, did you?” I whisper.
He rolls his eyes. “No, I didn’t kidnap our boy.”
Our boy. The circumstances of Daniel’s arrival is suddenly forgotten. He’s our boy. My heart squeezes, happy and sad. I want him here, of course. All the fucking time, I want him here, and yet I know that’s impossible.
My cell rings, and Danny looks down at the screen. “The gate?” he asks.
“It’ll be the tent company.” I answer and instruct Bud to direct them to the main house. “I’ll meet them on the drive.” Hanging up, I set my eyes on my husband. “I’m glad you’re back,” I say, and he peeks at me with a little fear.
“Why?”
“I need help deciding where the tent will be.” I definitely detect a miniscule drop of his shoulders. “Come on,” I say quickly before he can object, getting up and heading for the kitchen door. I’m met by Ringo and Otto, their frames filling the doorway, halting my escape. They look straight past me to Danny, and I glance over my shoulder, seeing him nod mildly and get up. “You said you’d help,” I whine dejectedly, deflating.
“No, you said I’d help.”
“I’ll help,” Daniel chirps, his fingers slathered in sticky meat.
“And me,” Esther pipes up, a blatant move to placate me. It’s all good and well, but I’m not marrying Esther and it would be quite nice to have my husband involved somewhere in the planning.
“See,” Danny murmurs as he approaches, sinking his fingers into my hair and kissing my forehead, trying to appease me too. “It’s covered.” He pulls away, and I swallow, unable to look him in the eye. I feel like I could cry. How stupid.
“Okay,” I relent, breaking away and turning, hiding my face, but I only make it one step before I’m tugged to a stop. I look at his big, lethal hand wrapped around my forearm. “I said okay.”
A swift tug has me facing him, but I keep my eyes low, willing the glaze to fuck off. A tent, for fuck’s sake. What’s gotten into me? The tips of his fingers grip my chin and lift, but I resist, making it as hard as possible for him to make me look at him.
“Rose,” he says, low and threateningly. I swallow and look up. His glacial eyes are annoyed slits, but his grip soon softens, as well as his stare. He breathes in deeply, nodding. “Give me half an hour,” he says, eyes on mine, and for a moment I think he’s told me to give him time, but then Ringo and Otto back out of the kitchen, and I realize he’s talking to them. He dips and bites my cheek. “Come on,” he whispers, curling an arm around my neck and hauling me close. “Let’s go talk tents.”
