“There,” I say, pointing my spoon at him. “That. That’s his whole personality. Dour. Boring. And he’s old.”
Cotton leans her chin on her hand, studying him. “You don’t flirt much, do you?”
He blinks. “I’m not fecking old! And I didn’t realize flirting was part of the job description.”
“It’s not,” I say quickly.
“It could be,” Cotton muses.
“Eat your soup,” I tell her.
She grins and takes an exaggerated bite.
The thing is, none of this is flirting. Not really. It’s deflection. Cotton’s teasing, my sarcasm, Bran’s stoic non-reacting—collectively, it’s us building a wall around the fact that a man who likes burying women is typing pet names at me from somewhere we can’t see.
It helps. A little.
“Where’s Saoirse?” I ask, partly for the distraction.
“Preschool,” Cotton says. “Brodie had to fly out to Philly to meet with Kael over something and will be back later this evening. He said to remind you that if you do anything even remotely dumb, he will personally come drag you to his station and handcuff you to a chair.”
“He can get in line,” Bran mutters.
Cotton cocks her head at him. “You two would get along. You have the same ‘I break things for a living and feel emotions reluctantly’ energy.”
“Fantastic,” he says.
She rolls her eyes like she expected that.
We eat. The soup disappears faster than I want it to. Warmth blooms in my stomach, pushing back the jitter.
My phone buzzes on the island, sending reflex and adrenaline jolting through me before I see the screen.
Not Nightjar.
Shiloh:just checking on my favorite pixie
Me:I’m good, with Cotton
Me:and Bran
Shiloh: [eyeball emoji]
Me:please don’t start.
Me:gotta go
Cotton pats my arm. “People worry about you. That’s a good thing.”
“It’s a distracting thing,” I say. “We have enough on our plate without me babysitting my friends’ anxiety.”
Cotton looks like she wants to argue. She doesn’t. She just squeezes my wrist once and then stands to rinse bowls.
Bran watches all of this quietly, eyes moving from my face to the phone to Cotton and back again.
“What?” I ask.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Just…adjusting.”
