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“V, the man isn’t going to want to show all four thousand of us around Yellowstone,” Daniel said, his mouth turned up to his equivalent of a smile.
She stuck her tongue out at him, and his return look was pure dark promise.
“Sure. Anytime you’re out that way, give me a shout,” Holt said easily.
“See,” Vivian said.
“Can we get to the good stuff?” Sonya complained.
“Dessert?” Drew asked, looking at the ceiling.
“There is that. But I meant what’s up with you two.” Sonya motioned between Andrew and me before she gave me a serene look, and I got a little nervous.
“Why don’t we talk about football? The weather? Hell, we could talk about shopping,” Stone said.
Daniel raised his glass and clinked with Stone. “Anything but relationships.”
“Here, here.” I lifted my own glass, and all the guys toasted.
“I wish I could promise we’ll all be better behaved next time,” Muriella said. “But it very likely could be worse.” She shrugged.
“I’m here anytime you invite me,” Holt said charmingly. “This is the best meal I can remember in a long time.” Then he glanced at Trish with alarm. “Except for yours. That was delicious.”
Trish laughed, and the whole room lit. Or at least my part of it did. “I won’t get mad if you like Muriella’s cooking more than mine.”
I wanted to wrap my arms around her. She was the most selfless person I’d ever known. She wasn’t in competition. Trish was genuinely good.
“You really stepped in it, didn’t you?” Baker asked.
“Where’s all the hostility coming from? I though we got along pretty well the other night,” Holt said, egging her on.
“Massive error in judgement.”
Daniel scraped his chair back from the table. “Muriella, dinner was fantastic as usual.”
The other guys scrambled up, following suit and mumbling their appreciation.
“I’ll help with the dishes,” I volunteered.
Baker was the only one of the ladies who looked surprised.
“Me too,” Holt said, picking up Baker’s empty plate from the table.
“Nonsense,” Muriella waved off, but we ignored her, collecting the empty plates from the women. The guys had already put theirs in the sink.
“Washcloth?” I asked.
Sonya opened a drawer near the sink and tossed one at me. I caught it with one hand and turned on the faucet.
“You rinse, I’ll load?” Holt said.
“Just like old times.”
Marlow liked to cook with Dad, so Holt and I were often relegated to cleanup duty. We’d both complained about it when we were young, but eventually it grew to be our time together.
“I like them,” Sonya announced loudly enough for us to hear.
Holt and I exchanged smirks.
