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“To me!” Sam corrected. That look of fucking pride on his face. It made me laugh. He fucking earned it.
“Laugh it up, furball,” Cole growled.
“He’s just mad he couldn’t win,” Finn goaded.
“I’m comin’ for the lot of you.”
“Raise your fucking glass, Stone,” Sam ordered, pointing down the table. “Stones! Ironwoods! All you fuckers down there! Raise your goddamn glasses to me!”
“It’s like he forgot you were out there too,” Declan murmured from his spot next to me. Raven nodded rapidly in agreement from her spot perched on his lap.
“He’s just drunk,” I commented under my breath. I raised my glass of water because fuck it. We did good.
“Live it up, you furry fucks,” Roan practically shouted. “The next one we’re winning.”
“You never win the karaoke contest,” Cole scoffed.
“Or the run,” Finn chimed in. “You guys suck.”
“Bring your whisk-wielding ass over here, Byrne!” Axel growled, slamming his hand to the table. “You and me! I could take you.”
“With a whisk?” He laughed. “Please.”
“Are they going to battle with whisks?” Raven whispered—or attempted to. She wasn’t quiet despite her efforts. She gasped, her hand flying over her chest. Jesus fuck, this woman was dramatic. “It’s like a sword battle!”
Declan shushed her and pulled her closer, kissing her shoulder.
“Don’t give them ideas,” he told her. “They’ll fucking do it.”
“Remember the lawn darts?” I asked.
“God.” Declan put his head between her shoulder blades, laughing hard. “Remember how Mom thought we’d killed Maverick?”
“Oh God!” Sam exclaimed. “I thought Mom was going to fucking kill me.”
“I still have the scar to fucking prove you assholes don’t need sharp objects!” Maverick yelled from the other end of the table.
“I didn’t stab you that hard!” he shot back.
“You still fucking stabbed me!”
“Were you sixteen then too?” Raven asked, glancing over her shoulder at Declan. I busted out laughing. The woman held no punches.
“Woman!” Cade chastised from across the table. “You can’t say shit like that!”
“I can say whatever I want! I want to know!”
“Sam was eleven—”
“And a fucking moron!” Maverick interrupted Nolan’s attempt to explain the situation.
“He doesn’t hold a fucking grudge at all,” Sam said, and I shrugged. I’d been stabbed a handful of times—more than I wanted to admit. Yeah, I held a fucking grudge. Hard to blame Maverick for that one, even if we were just kids.
To defend himself, Sam ended up on a chair to dramatically regale everyone with the story of how he’d stabbed Maverick. With a lawn dart. When he was eleven. Sure, we Byrnes were wild as fuck as kids, but the Ironwoods? They were the fucking instigators. Together, we were fire and gasoline—especially when we were young. We’d spent practically every summer together.
And you bet your ass, every fucking summer, an Ironwood started some shit that we Byrnes took to the next level. It really was a miracle we all survived to adulthood, considering Maverick being stabbed was a milder event in our childhood. Fuck. How had we survived?
I lost my train of thought when I caught sight of Genevieve sneaking her way into the far side of the room. Scooting my chair back slightly, I watched her make a beeline straight for the bar. She dressed for comfort in an oversized sweatshirt, shorts, and sandals. Those itty bitty cutoff shorts. I fucking loved seeing her wear them—and not just because her legs looked fucking incredible in them. I remembered a time when getting Genevieve to wear pants was traumatic. She’d been raised that skirts were a proper woman’s attire. Anything else was shameful. The idea of pants had made her sob for days. I scrubbed a hand over my face, sighing. That poor woman. I was proud as fuck to see her still making progress. Three years ago, she never would’ve put shorts on. Fuck, getting her in a goddamn scoop-neck t-shirt had been an easier feat despite the way the importance of high-necked shirts had been impressed on her.
