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“What are you looking for?” Viper asked as he came into the bedroom.
“A button up shirt for you. It’ll be easier to get on than a T-shirt. You can roll up the sleeves to stay cool.”
“Don’t own a button up shirt.”
“Okay, first order of business is to change that. I’ll buy you some. Ah, that reminds me. We need a car now more than ever since you can’t ride your motorcycle.”
“I can ride my motorcycle.”
I rolled my eyes. “Even if I thought that was a good idea—which I don’t—I can’t ride on the back of it with you. My arms wrap around your ribs, and I’ll hurt you.”
“So, we’ll get you a car.”
“Okay. Something big enough that you can fit in comfortably.”
“Not a Honda Civic, then.”
“That car would look like a wind-up toy next to you.”
He grimaced his way into a T-shirt and a pair of jeans, but he didn’t bother with his leather cut. Viper suddenly looked very dressed down.
“Might want to do something with your hair,” I said, fighting a smile.
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
“You went to sleep with it wet and it’s sticking up. It makes you look a lot less fierce and a lot more boyish.”
“Can’t have that,” he said as he once again strode into the bathroom.
We finally left the bedroom and headed downstairs. Mia and Brooklyn were in the kitchen, holding mugs of coffee and chatting in low voices.
“You’re awake,” Brooklyn said, her gaze bouncing between me and Viper.
“Heard people talking,” I explained.
“Coffee?” Brooklyn asked.
“Please,” Viper said.
“Colt, Zip and Boxer are outside,” Mia said to Viper.
“Thanks,” Viper said to Brooklyn as she handed him a mug full of coffee. “I’ll join them.”
Viper trekked out of the kitchen, heading to the backyard.
“Did Colt sleep at all?” I asked Mia. I took the carton of cream and poured it into my coffee.
“A few hours,” she said. “Tossed and turned a lot.”
“How’s Darcy?” I asked. “Stupid question, I guess. Considering…”
“Holding it together,” Brooklyn said. “She left with the kids about thirty minutes ago. She wanted to tell them at home.”
“What about the funeral?” I asked.
Mia sighed. “Tomorrow. God, I’m sick to fucking death of funerals.” When she realized what she’d said, her face flushed with color. “I’m horrible.”
“You’re not,” Brooklyn said.
