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“Highly unprofessional, sweetheart.”
“Fire me then, Mr. Leblanc.”
The twins come in after her, Mia with a book in her hands and Ben with a notebook he’s writing in. It’s the second book in Mia’s series. After Bristol took her to bed, she came back downstairs and pressed her copy ofOver Sea, Under Stoneinto Emerson’s hands, squinting against the firelight.
“That’s to borrow.” Mia was extremely firm.
“Do you want me to mail it back, send it by courier, or return it in person?”
She thought about it, her face expressionless. “In person.”
“Okay.” Emerson stuck his hand out, and she shook it.
“You’re going to like it,” Mia said, and it was actually one of the most threatening things I’ve ever heard in my life. It took all my strength not to laugh.
Now, Mia and Ben take seats at the table on the other side of the kitchen. It’s less fancy than the set in the main dining room, where we all ate last night, but it gets points for proximity to the stove.
Bristol comes over to get plates, and I can’t help it. I go back to the fridge, pull it open, and kiss her while she’s blocked from view. Just a little bite.
“I like how you taste,” she whispers when I pull back.
“I wouldn’t mind tasting—”
“Will.”
“Some fresh pancakes,” I say, and this time, when she laughs, I don’t brace myself. I just let it happen.
Okay. That’s not bad.
She takes the plates over to the table and starts setting them out. I like the way she looks in my sweatshirt, but unfortunately, it covers her ass. Can’t have everything, I guess.
I’m halfway back to the stove, thinking about scrambled eggs and pancakes and taking Bristol back to bed, when there’s a knock at the door.
At thekitchendoor.
I don’t know who would be knocking, and I can’t see, because it has textured privacy glass. Delivery person or something, probably. Guy to mow the lawn? I don’t know.
It’ll only take a minute to send them on their way.
I go to the door, unlock it, and pull it open, ready with directions to the backyard or to tell them where to put the delivery.
But the person on the other side isn’t wearing a uniform.
It’s a woman in a gray peacoat, her hands in her pockets. I don’t recognize her.
I don’t recognize her, but my stomach clenches. Dread freezes the back of my neck. There’s a howling sound, too soft and distant to be real, like a toddler wailing in a crib two states over.
She looks up at me like she knows me, but I don’t know her.
Do I know her?
Yes,Emerson’s voice says, and he’s not entirely wrong.
Recognition is a deadbolt sliding into place on the outside of a door. A hand on the collar of my shirt. There’s something about her face. The shape of her nose. Her cheekbones. It’s hard to say how old she is, because she doesn’t have many wrinkles, but her eyes—
Fuck. Her eyes.
Are Sinclair’s.
