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My eyes lift to Jericho. He stares at the kettle longingly, a look I can’t place in his eyes. Tentatively, his right index finger reaches out and swoops across the kettle’s porcelain exterior, stroking it.
I smile. "Okay, boy. And the tea—bless us with your opinion. Too hot? Too aromatic? We have peppermint and chamomile, too—perhaps those are more up your alley."
After I pour him a fresh cup, he brings it to his lips. He inhales deeply, then an expression of relaxation blooms on his features. "It’s great."
"What notes are you picking up?" Marcello’s voice is gruff.
Jericho takes another whiff. "Fruit. Berry."
"Go on," I say a bit too eagerly.
He clears his throat. "Passionfruit.No doubt about it."
A groan escapes me as I palm my forehead. "You’re missing one, boy. No big deal—it doesn’t mean you can’t be our boy."
He furrows his brow. "What’s the mystery flavor?"
"Raspberry." I shake my head in disappointment.
"Ohhhh, I love raspberry." Jericho dazzles me with a smile. "I only overlooked it because I was used to pure passionfruit in prison. This is… a dream."
A silence falls across the gathering. My brothers and I look at each other, then turn back to Jericho.
Santino’s eyebrows slam together. "Prison?"
Jericho tears his eyes away from us. "I don't really talk about it. Not since my sentence was commuted."
My brothers and I share another curious look. We’d suspected Jericho had been locked up after Medici suggested as much after we bumped into him at the bar for the first time. Apparently, ex-convicts can sniff each other out like hounds. They don't even have to put their faces in each other’s asses like actual hounds or like prisoners do in the showers. They just know. Prisoner intuition.
Still, hearing it from his lips intrigues us more. None of us have dated an ex-con before—certainly not one as cute and young as Jericho.
Boys who’ve been to prison have been through hell and back. We have to tread carefully.
I place my hand on his. "You don't have to speak about anything you don't want to, boy."
Marcello nods. "Not until you’re ready."
"If ever," Santino adds.
Jericho shakes my hand off and brings the teacup to his lips. "This isdelicious."
Clearly, Jericho wants to ignore this discussion for the time being. There’s nothing wrong with that—my brothers and I fully understand boundaries.
A dumb grin forms on my face as I watch him drink the tea. Christ—Christ.
His black locks shake in the gentle summer breeze. The sunlight paints a web on his pointy nose, illuminating his freckles. I didn’t even realize his two ears were pierced with tiny studs.
"How old are you, boy?" I ask.
"Twenty-eight."
Jericho’s in his late twenties. He’s seen shit. Done shit. He’s not an innocent, inexperienced virgin like Mattie.
The bags under his eyes attest to the fact that he’s tired of life. Yes—they hurt me. Deeply. All at once, I wanted to hold him in my arms, bury him in a great, big hug, and ask him what happened to him. Why he went to prison.
Then, I want to dress him in pink pretties so he feels safe and never let him go.
Knock it off, dumbass. This boy might not even like wearing pretties—don’t get lost in fantasy land until you know you’re compatible.
