Downstairs, instead of finding Crue leadership, War and I are met with a pair of pretty girls in the first-floor kitchen. One is my cousin Ash.
The other is Cranberry Sauce.
I tuck my gun into the back of my jeans before they see it.
“Hey,” Ash says, her eyes dropping to War’s leg. “Pull a hammy?”
War glares at her, which causes Sauce to step back. Ash, on the other hand, could hold an ice cube in her hand without it melting. She is that much a C Crue boss’s little sister.
War turns, shifting his arm to keep his gun out of sight. As he passes me, he says, “Get them the fuck out.”
“Charming, as usual,” Ash says, searching through the kitchen cabinets as though she lives with us.
My gaze locks on Sawyer’s navy sweater, which is stretched out in all the right places. I’d gladly blow off sleep today to unveil the contents of her clothes. Dragging my eyes away from temptation, I return them to my blood relation.“What are you doing here, Ash?”
“Got it.” From beneath the quartz-topped island, she holds up a pair of cookie sheets “Brought some dough for rhubarb scones. You like scones, right?” She inclines her head at a bag of pre-made dough.
Touching the edge of my lip to be sure it hasn’t started to bleed again, I sigh. “We were out all night, Ash. So, a visit before eight am makes me want to tell you what you can do with your scones.” I keep my voice low. I’m tired, but I’m not raging. Ash is a friend, as well as a cousin. Also, while no one has ever said it would be unwise to be rude to her, she’s a favorite of two of our straight-up gangster bosses.
Ash tosses her hair over her shoulder. “C’mon, James. No one told you and the minotaur to stomp down here. I was gonna make these magically delicious scones for you and put them in a container so they’d be fresh when you woke up.”
“Yeah, right.” I shake my head with a disgruntled expression. “Because you expected us to stay in bed while the house was infiltrated.” She knows better.
Ash pauses to stare at me with a skeptical expression. “I didn’t think the security system was on. How did you even know?”
“We always know.” I circle around the island to where Sawyer stands. “Morning, Cranberry Sauce. Didn’t realize you and my cousin were friends. How did that happen?”
The expression in her brown eyes suggests she wants to dismantle me. I would very much like to see her try. A struggle of that kind would end with her naked and trapped beneath me.
Her brows wrinkle suspiciously, as though she can read my thoughts. “Roommates.”
“Roommates?” Looking between the two of them, I say, “Since when?”
Ashling is practically a gypsy with her souped up 1969 Camaro as her caravan as she bounces between residences, staying with friends who live off campus. Ash refuses to live in a dorm room because freshmen aren’t allowed to have cars on campus, and “her car is her life.” Leaning toward dramatic, that’s my cousin.
“Since now,” Ash says cheerfully. “How are you feeling?”
My eyes cut to her. “Grand.” The sarcastic edge in my tone can’t be missed, and she doesn’t miss it. Pulling out a chair at the island, I sit.
Sawyer smells like berries and spice, and in a perfect world, she—far more than scones—is what I would like to have for breakfast.
In the middle of dropping dough onto a baking tray, Ash’s brows rise. “Go back to bed, Jamie. Sorry I woke you up.” Her tone is unusually flat, proving there’s a darker edge beneath Ash’s bright surface.
I give her a meaningful look. “Can’t go to bed with guests in the house. What would the relatives say?”
Ash glances fleetingly at her new friend and then back at me, finally taking my meaning.
This house doesn’t belong to me. It’s Crue property, and War and I are responsible for keeping its secrets. Leaving Ash’s friend to be supervised by her alone is not happening. The girl might force open the wrong closet door and find an illegal arsenal.
“You know, the dough will keep.” Ash ties a twist around the bag and sets it in the fridge. Then she dumps the uncooked dough from the pan into the trash. Yeah, dramatic.
“Aw.” With a frown, Sawyer gives me a disapproving look. “You’re like a bad penny.”
Raising a brow at the challenge in her tone, I reply in kind. “Is that so?”
“Yeah, it is.” She doubles down by narrowing her eyes at me. “Your girlfriend Clare abandoned me to my fate over your bad behavior. Now, your cousin brings fresh, handmade pastry dough to bake for you, and you bounce her? You look like a gold medallion, O’Rourke, but no way. Straight up bad penny.” When her full lower lip pushes out in a quasi pout, I want to bite it. Is she fucking French? In my experience, American girls don’t know how to pout.
“I don’t have a girlfriend. And if I did, it would not be Clare Duffy.”
